


Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind I thru V

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-15
Updated: 2000-11-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 07:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 59,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11331285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: So what really does happen after that Seventh Season finale?





	Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind I thru V

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind by Josan

Title: CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE FOURTH KIND  
Author: Josan  
Betas: Ratlover, RJ, Skif, Virgule  
Date: September, 2000  
Summary: So what really does happen after that Seventh Season finale?  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: NC-17  
Archive: SKSA, RatB, Basement, Ratlover  
Comments: OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try   
DISCLAIMER: The characters from the program, X-FILES, are the property of CC, Fox and 1013; the others are all mine.  
NOTE: You will find an author's note on the title (Thanks, Ratlover) at the end of the story.  
DEDICATION: To those new bathing suits on the Olympic male swimmers which are beautifully form-fitting, hugging and outlining every little bit of the swimmer's anatomy, and more-so when wet and televised from the bottom of the pool. (Are Virule and I the only ones to have noticed those bubbles that attract the eye to a certain bulge??????)

* * *

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE FOURTH KIND: PROLOGUE

For some eight months after Mulder had -- the official version was "disappeared": they preferred the term "abducted" -- after Mulder had been abducted, the three of them, Skinner, Scully and Krycek worked together in a sort of uneasy truce, trying to gather the proof necessary to convince the Adminstration of the FBI that "abducted" was the correct term.

Walter Skinner discovered that he really didn't enjoy being treated as Mulder had been for all those years he had worked out of the basement office. That no matter how much Scully and the Lone Gunmen believed and worked on, regardless of others' beliefs, no matter that he himself had seen the ship removed itself and its cargo from this part of the solar system, there was a limit to his forbearance, to his tolerance of being thought quietly -- and not so quietly -- a fool.

So, he succumbed to the pressure being placed on him from his superiors, from his colleagues, and took himself and his twenty plus years off to retirement.

He stayed around long enough to see Dana Scully settled. Watched, with some humour, as the Lone Gunmen appointed themselves honourary uncles and Scully's right-hand men, whether she wanted them or not. He made arrangements for some of his pension cheques to be deposited into a secured account, the others into a trust fund he set up for Scully's progeny.

Then he emptied his bank account of his severance buy-out and disappeared.

Krycek wasn't around right then: he'd been off tracking down some information that could, potentially, provide a clue or two as to a means of contacting the force that had taken Mulder. And, though he never told anyone, he used some old contacts of his own to the Rebel Aliens in hope of getting some information to pass on to Scully.

Actually, his was the way that worked. Between the information that the Lone Gunmen were able to put together, some strange data that Krycek had picked up in his searching of old Consortium data banks, the Rebels decided that it might be worthwhile to pay some attention to events. They were used to Krycek, having had "dealings" with him, and decided that they would use him as their contact.

And then, suddenly, as suddenly as he had disappeared, Mulder was back.

Almost four years had gone by, but to Mulder that meant nothing. For him, time had stood practically still. He was welcomed back with open arms by Scully, the Gunmen. He looked around for Skinner and often wondered aloud where he had disappeared to.

The Gunmen did try to track him down, but the trail was over three years cold. They figured Skinner must have known that *they* would be the ones looking for him: he never used plastic, might even have changed his name.

"Hey, Walt! This guy says he wants to talk to you."

Walt sighed at the interruption, looked up from the paperwork he was doing at his end of the bar. He glanced over his shoulder to check out the man Ted was gesturing to with his head.

And froze.

Then, with studied movements, he placed the pencil down on the invoice he had been verifying, straightened, walked down to the other end of the bar and the "guy" waiting for him there.

"Krycek."

"Skinner."

The two men said nothing more, just looked each other over, noting the changes three years had made.

"Actually," said Skinner to Krycek, "here I go by..."

"Walt Serge. Not bad. Close enough to your real name not to confuse you, different enough so that the Gunmen couldn't track you down. Sounds French enough to fit into the local colour."

Skinner rested a hip against the curve of the bar, folded his arms across his chest and looked at the man sitting with a draft in front of him. "So, how did you track me down?"

Krycek sounded nonchalant about the whole thing. "It took a while, but then I remembered something in the dossier they'd given me on you, back when, about how you'd come fishing around here after Vietnam. I thought it was worth a look."

Skinner nodded his acknowledgement: it never paid to underrate Krycek. "So what do you want, Krycek?"

Krycek shrugged. "Would you believe, nothing? I don't want anything."

Skinner smirked. "No, can't say that I do. You always want something."

"Not this time. Actually..."

Skinner laughed out loud. "Yes, Krycek, actually?" His tone was most mocking.

Krycek's expression grew almost interested as he waited a moment before slowly reaching inside his jacket --Skinner lost his humour, straightened, ready for anything -- and pulling out a cell phone. "I have something for you." He held out the phone. Skinner merely looked at it. Krycek shrugged, set it on the bar, pushed it gently with the tip of his fingers toward the man now looking a bit confused.

"A phone. What do I want with a phone, Krycek?"

Krycek took a sip of the draft, swallowed with a grimace. He wasn't much of a beer drinker, not these days. "You might want to try punching star, 4, 2."

He met Skinner's incredulous glance with a solid one of his own. Skinner must have seen something that convinced him. He picked up the phone, punched the three buttons and held the phone to his ear.

Krycek continued sipping the beer he didn't want, watching Skinner's face, knowing the instant he recognized the voice at the other end of the connection.

"Mulder? Mulder! What..." Skinner turned his back to the bar.

Krycek paused in his drinking to listen to the one-sided conversation, noting Skinner's pleasure, his barely contained happiness at hearing Mulder's voice. After some minutes, he forced himself to take another mouthful, and to swallow.

He pretended not to see the big man use his shirt sleeve to wipe his face before turning around to face him. He handed the phone back to Krycek. It took a couple of tries for Skinner to whisper in a husky voice, "He says, he'd like for us to get together. Soon."

Krycek took back the phone, nodded as he slipped it back inside his jacket.

Skinner was trying to loosen his throat to thank Krycek when the door to the bar opened and he was struck speechless again. Fox Mulder, not looking a day older than he had that night in a Oregon woods, stood in the doorway, scanning the room looking for...

"Walter!"

Krycek didn't bother turning around to watch the reunion: he could follow it in the mirrored wall behind the bar. Two men who rushed to each other, grabbed, held on tightly. Two men who were not aware of the tears that were streaking their faces. Who pulled back to take a good look at the other, grin stupidly and then haul the other close again for an even tighter hug.

"Ted! Cover for me, will you?"

"Sure thing, Walt. Old friend, eh?"

"Very old friend. And it's been far too long."

"No prob. Take all the time you want. Probably going to be dead anyway."

And watched, apparently disinterested, as Walter Skinner, his arm around the shoulders of Fox Mulder, led the man out of the bar and, Krycek knew, to the apartment upstairs of the bar a "Walt Serge" had bought in the Vermont-Quebec border town of Newport, at the American end of Lake Memphremagog. A world away from Washington, D.C.

He signalled Ted and pointed to the half-finished beer. "I think I'd prefer something stronger. What kind of vodka do you carry?"

Skinner answered the knock on his door. Two a.m. Past closing time downstairs. He wondered if there was a problem.

"Sorry to bother you, Walt. But that guy at the bar, you know the one who gave you the cell phone?"

"Krycek."

"Whatever. Anyway, what am I supposed to do with him?"

Walter Skinner placed his fists on his hips and thought, what indeed was he supposed to do with Krycek?

Krycek had moved from the bar to a table in the corner, from beer to a full quart of vodka. Skinner knew that Russians were supposedly brought up to consider the drink to be mother's milk, but if Krycek had really drunk most of the bottle, and it seemed from Ted's comments that he had, there was such a thing as overdosing even on that stuff.

"Thanks, Ted. I'll take over from here. You go home. And thanks again for taking over for me tonight. I really appreciated it."

He waited until he heard the door close before he approached the table.

Krycek's head was lying on the table, his hand, his fake hand tightly clutching the glass he'd been drinking out of since Skinner and Mulder had left. He was snoring softly, but Skinner didn't assume that meant Krycek was sound asleep. He had learnt early on in their truce never to assume anything that concerned Alex Krycek.

He pulled out the chair facing the man, noisily dragging it against the wood floor. The snores became small snorts that settled back into snores.

Skinner sat back in his chair. He had never expected to see this man again: there was no reason for it. They had settled pretty much what could be settled between them when they had worked together. They'd had to, in order to keep on working together. Krycek's betrayal, Melissa Scully's death, the DAT tape, Mulder's trip to Russia, the nanocytes, Mulder's disappearance. Throughout it all, Krycek had calmly presented his version of things while Skinner had held onto his temper by the merest of margins.

No matter how tense, tired, argumentative he or Scully had gotten, Krycek had never once lost that calm demeanour.

Yet, here and now, the man lay, head on table, passed out, drunk.

The fact that Krycek had drunk all that vodka was less bothersome to Skinner than the fact that the man had drunk himself senseless in a public place. That didn't seem to be something the Krycek he knew would do. When they had worked together, he always assumed Krycek had one eye on what he was doing, one eye looking out for danger. He'd often thought that Krycek probably had a third eye somewhere at the back of his head: it was impossible in those days to come up on him unaware.

Now, all that seemed to have been thrown to the wind. If he wanted to, he could probably kill the man without the slightest resistance on his part.

Skinner leaned over and shook Krycek's shoulder. "Krycek. Come on, Krycek. You can't spend the night here. I turn the heat off at night. Come on. Wake up."

He was finally rewarded by a head slowly lifting, eyes blearily trying to focus on him. "Skinner?" The voice was laden with alcohol. "What are you doing here? You should be with him. I brought him here to be with you."

Skinner sat back in his chair, watched as Krycek tried to steady his head. Wondered just how resistant his usual walls would be to a few questions. "He's upstairs. Why did you bring him here, Krycek? He told me all about the plan you set up, to surprise me."

"And you were surprised." Krycek gave up trying to hold his head straight; he propped it up on his good hand, though the elbow did wobble a bit before it steadied.

"Yes. I was."

Krycek nodded, nearing falling off his prop. He caught sight of the glass, brought it up to his mouth.

"Don't you think you've had enough of that? According to Ted, you've had more than enough to kill you."

Krycek managed to get a mouthful down. "Big deal. If I die, they'll only bring me back." He tried to focus on Skinner. "Not a problem. We're all pretty used to dying and then coming back."

"Who's they, Krycek?"

But Krycek was more interested in trying to refill his glass. He seemed to be having a problem getting the hand to release the glass so he could use it to reach for the bottle. And when he tried to go for the bottle with his other hand, his head hit the table with a thud. Skinner watched him struggle then sighed, picked up the bottle and poured some into the glass.

"That's very kind of you," Krycek nodded, very seriously, head propped up again.

"You're welcome. If I ask you another question, Krycek, will you answer it?"

The glass stopped part way to his mouth. "Sure. If I can." It continued, fairly successfully. Only a little spilled over.

"Why did you bring Mulder here?"

"Didn't bring him here. Brought him to you."

"Why?"

"Because you've always wanted him. Thought now you should have him."

Skinner leaned over, unclasped the hand from the glass with one hand, removing it with the other. "I don't quite understand. What do you mean 'wanted him'?"

Krycek looked surprised to find that the glass wasn't where he remembered it to be. He looked around the table, trying to find it. "Fuck him."

"Fuck who, Krycek?" Skinner moved the bottle off the table.

"Mulder. You want to fuck Mulder, so I'm giving him to you."

Skinner looked up from placing the bottle on the floor by his chair. Very carefully he asked, "What makes you think I want to fuck Mulder?"

"Because you do." Krycek gave up trying to find the glass, reached out for the bottle that now too seemed to have disappeared.

"And so you're giving him to me as...what, a gift?"

Krycek nodded. "A farewell gift."

"Who's leaving, Krycek?"

"I am. I told them to pick me up here. They'll be by sometime before dawn."

"That's nice. But Krycek, what if I don't want to fuck Mulder?"

"'Course you do. I could tell. Every time you looked at him and you thought no one else was looking. And you were so upset when he went with them. I mean you even came out here to hide. I know 'bout that. It helps to go away, hide when you hurt."

Skinner got up, went behind the bar, mixed something in a glass. "And because you're going away..."

"With them."

"With them, you've decided that this is the time for Mulder and I to...what? declare our undying love for each other?"

"He missed you. He kept asking about you. Where you were. Why we hadn't found you. He yelled at the Gunmen about it. Got Scully all upset and worried."

"And you knew where I was." Skinner came back to the table, crouched so that he was face to face with the drunken triple-agent.

"Found you about a year ago. Kept an eye on you but left you alone."

"Did you, now?"

Krycek nodded, suddenly aware that Skinner was offering him a glass, was in fact holding it to his mouth. All he had to do was open wide...he grimaced at the taste, but drank it down anyway.

Skinner held the glass to Krycek's mouth until he really couldn't drink any more, placed it on the table, got to his feet, bringing Krycek with him. "Come on, let's get those feet of yours moving. We've got to make it to the sink."

There was a deep industrial sink behind the bar, used for rinsing out beer kegs. They made it there just as Krycek began heaving. Skinner held his head over the sink, grimacing at the smell, turned on a tap, but kept him there until nothing more seemed to want to come up. Then he propped Krycek's hands on the edge of the sink, went and filled a glass with water from the small bar sink and held that to Krycek's mouth. "Come on, rinse out. You'll feel better."

Skinner waited until the dry heaves had stopped before mopping up Krycek's face, making sure the sink was vomit free -- thankfully, Krycek hadn't been eating with his vodka: there had been very little by way of solids that needed washing down the drain.

He pulled Krycek's good arm over his shoulders, half carried him out of the bar, turning off the lights, locking the door behind them. Getting him up the stairs was more difficult, but they finally made it into the kitchen where Skinner gladly dropped Krycek into a chair. With an exasperated exhalation, he set about putting a pot of coffee together.

Krycek sat, head propped up on both hands, eyes blindly staring at the table top. Skinner waited against the counter. Neither said anything until Skinner placed a mug of coffee just under Krycek's nose.

Krycek held the mug between his hands, his real one trembling slightly from the after effects of puking his guts up, lowered his mouth to the mug and slurped. "Thank you."

Skinner took the chair next to Krycek, sipped his own coffee. "So, if I understand you correctly, you're going away and you've decided to give me Mulder as a going-away present because, in your mind, I've always wanted to fuck him. Is this right?"

Krycek raised his head. His eyes were still watery from the force of his vomiting, his face pasty white, sweaty, but he focused on Skinner and nodded.

"Well, that's very...generous of you, Krycek. There's only one problem. I don't want to fuck him."

Krycek carefully brought the mug up to his mouth, cautiously sipped. "Yes. You do. I've seen the way you look at him, and you do. Believe me, I know. You do."

Skinner pondered the mug in his hand, spoke, when he finally did, in a low, considered tone. "All right. I will admit to looking at him. He's a beautiful man, Krycek. And I like looking at beautiful things. But there's a difference between looking and wanting."

"He wants you, too." Krycek stared into his coffee.

"Does he?"

"You'll be good for him."

"Will I?"

Krycek nodded, not too much; his head was beginning to hurt. "You'll keep him anchored. Scully used to do that, but she's pretty busy these days."

"Yes," agreed Skinner, watching his old enemy, his reluctant ally, for any clue he could find that would explain this behaviour. "She did use to do that. And you're right that she's a bit too busy these days with other priorities. You're not the only one who's been keeping an eye on people. And leaving them alone."

Krycek met his eyes, then turned back to his coffee.

"But, Krycek, just because you like something, even if you want it, that doesn't mean it's right for you."

Krycek gave a little snort of disagreement, but continued drinking the coffee.

Then Skinner moved on to the other subject that had him curious. "Krycek, you keep on saying 'they' are coming for you. Who are these 'they'? Anyone we should be arming ourselves for?"

Krycek shook his head, regretted doing so. "No. I made a deal with the Rebel Aliens. They had a line to the ones who took Mulder. In return, they want some human contact they can deal with on a regular basis. But first they want me to understand where they're coming from. So, they want me to go with them."

Once in his life Skinner would have scoffed at such information. Now the only thing that took him by surprise was the disinterest with which Krycek had made the announcement.

"The Rebel Aliens are coming here? Tonight? For *you*?"

The two men at the table looked up to see Mulder, a rumpled sweat-suited Mulder, staring at them from the doorway.

"Did we wake you up, Mulder? Sorry, I didn't think we were making all that much noise." Skinner smiled at him.

Mulder ignored him. He came into the room and stood in front of Krycek. "Are you seriously telling me that the Rebel Aliens have chosen *you* for their contact here, on this planet?"

Some of the old Krycek reacted to Mulder's incredulous tone. "What's the matter, Mulder? You think you're the only one who's deserving of an Alien experience. I had one long before you," he sneered, "if you'd bother to remember."

Skinner sat back, eyes swivelling between the two opponents who seethed with dislike for each other.

"Why *you*?" Mulder's tone revealed his disbelief. "Why would they want to use you? You used to go around killing them?"

Krycek shrugged, as if this wasn't much of a problem. "I'm familiar to them. Besides, they're far more pragmatic about things like that than we are. They knew that was the only way to win, so they accepted the killings. No questions asked."

"No questions asked. That's you all right," snapped Mulder, taking an angry pace between the table and counter. "If you're the one to go with them, you won't even have the first idea of which questions to ask!"

"Ah, Jesus, Mulder! You and your damn questions!" Krycek sounded tired. "Haven't you gotten enough answers to your questions by now?"

Mulder passed both hands through his hair as he continued pacing back and forth. Skinner thought for a moment that Mulder was going to pull his hair out, he looked so frustrated. Krycek ignored him, concentrated on getting the coffee to his mouth.

"There are never enough answers."

Krycek stared blankly into the mug. "You just came back from getting answers. What's the matter, Mulder? Didn't your abductors answer all your questions? Just how many fucking questions do you have that need answering?"

"All of them. Every time I get an answer, there are a dozen new questions that need answering." Mulder took another impatient turn around the room. "And what are you going to do? Are you even going to think of asking any questions, Krycek?" His tone judgemental, "Or are you just going along like some zombie, waiting until someone decides to tell you something, like you always do? Jesus! Taking *you* is a wasted opportunity!"

Krycek put his mug down, slowly got to his feet. "Am I getting this right? Are you suggesting that you want to go in my place?"

Mulder took a stance in front of his old nemesis. "Well, if someone's got to go, who better than me? I've already seen one view of the universe. I know what to look for. I have an idea of which questions to ask."

"What about Scully?" Krycek sounded as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Skinner, less involved, could see the hunger in Mulder's eyes, a hunger that he realized could not be satisfied here on Earth.

"What about Scully? She has her own life. The Gunmen are there should she need someone. She doesn't need *me*. Financially, she's making more now as a forensic consultant than she was at the FBI."

"Then what about Walter? He loves you."

"Krycek." Skinner decided it was time to say something. Neither man paid him the slightest attention.

"And I love him," tossed back Mulder, obviously, to Skinner at least, not meaning it as Krycek had. "But this is important..."

"Fuck you, Mulder!" Krycek suddenly screamed, showing more emotion than either man had ever seen from him. "*I* cut my heart out giving him to you and all *you* want is to go back up there?"

"Krycek." Skinner focused his voice on the man trembling on his feet. Whether with rage or because of the alcohol still coursing through his body, he couldn't tell. He spoke again, using a perfected AD tone that usually penetrated even the thickest of skulls. "Alex!"

The tone worked. Krycek turned to him, ready to include him in his hostility. Skinner pointed toward the door where two faceless men stood waiting.

Mulder turned to them, the need to go with them so obvious on his face that even Krycek could see it.

One of the Rebels gestured toward Krycek. Krycek closed his eyes, stilled, then slowly nodded.

"They're communicating with you. Aren't they, Krycek?" Skinner could hear the envy in Mulder's voice.

"Alex." Skinner leaned over and placed his hand on Krycek's real arm. "Would they be willing to take him?"

There was a pause. Eyes still closed, it seemed that Krycek communicated something that set the second faceless man to gesturing. Krycek raised his hand, as though to protest, then let it drop. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he nodded.

"Then, Alex, let him go."

Krycek turned his head, opened his eyes. "I wanted," he spoke as if each word were being dragged out of him painfully, "to give you something to make up for the hurt."

"I understand. And I appreciate it. But let him go. It's what he wants. What he needs." Hand still on Krycek, Skinner turned to Mulder. "You'd better get your things."

Mulder looked from Skinner to Krycek. "I'll beg, if that's what you want."

Krycek shook his head slightly. "No. That's not what I want. But if you want to go in my place, well, they're not saying no. It seems they're as interested in your point of view as you are in theirs. You can ask each other," he couldn't hide all his incomprehension of the man who had just returned from the stars and wanted so desperately to return to them, "all the questions that you can possible think up."

Mulder nodded once, went to get his things. Krycek slowly sat down, never noticing that Skinner's hand stayed where it was.

Mulder was back in a minute, his other clothes hurriedly thrown on, his overnighter in his hand.

The Rebels turned and left as silently as they had arrived. At the door Mulder turned around. "Tell Scully..."

"I'll explain everything to Scully," Skinner said.

"She'll understand," said Mulder. "She always understands."

"Yes, she does." Skinner smiled. "Come back to us when you can."

Mulder nodded. "Krycek. Thank you."

And he was gone.

After a while, Skinner got up and closed the door. He poured the leftover coffee down the drain.

Krycek stood up, started stiffly for the door, turned an interesting shade of green. Skinner barely made it out of the way as Krycek was once again violently ill into the sink. Skinner had a sneaking suspicion that alcohol had very little to do with this bout of vomiting.

He waited until the dry heaves that shook Krycek to the point he was afraid Krycek was going to drop to the floor were under control. He got him to rinse his mouth again, but even that was enough to set him off once more. The worse over, Skinner managed to get Krycek into his bedroom, onto the bed already rumpled from Mulder's occupation of it. He had been making himself a place to sleep on the couch when Ted had come get him to deal with a drunken Krycek.

He got most of Krycek's clothes off, left him his shorts and t-shirt. "Alex. Come on, help me here. We've got to take that prosthesis off you. You won't be comfortable sleeping with it on. Show me how to take it off."

Instead, forcing his attention on the procedure, Krycek slipped his hand under the long-sleeved t-shirt, released whatever buckles that loosened the arm and allowed Skinner to slip it out of the sleeve, harness trailing. Skinner took it from him, carefully lay it down on a near-by armchair, then helped Krycek lie down.

Krycek lay on his left side, curled his arm about his midriff, drew his knees up slightly as if to protect himself. Skinner covered him gently. He sat on the side of the bed, tucked the blankets around the still trembling man.

"It's going to be all right, Alex. You'll see. We'll talk in the morning."

"About what?" But Krycek sounded more dispirited, more tired than really curious. He closed his eyes.

"About," said Skinner, "a young agent I once had working under me. Dressed like a geek. I often wondered if he bought his suits in the same store Mulder bought his ties."

Krycek's eyes opened. He stared away from the man talking.

"Still, they didn't help. Every time I saw him, all I wanted to do was push him against the nearest wall and fuck him silly."

They both waited.

"And now?" Krycek finally asked.

"Now I'm older." Skinner ran his fingers through the thick sable hair. "I still want to fuck him silly, but I think we'll do it in a bed. More comfortable that way." He smiled at the man lying in his bed, face frowning as if this was too much for him to absorb. "Go to sleep, Alex. We'll talk in the morning."

And stayed by Krcyek's side until he fell asleep.

Skinner slouched in the doorway of the bathroom, watching the steam fill the room.

He'd waited until he'd heard the water come on to make a new pot of coffee and then he'd gone to check on the condition of his unexpected visitor.

The toothbrush he had put out on the counter, ready with toothpaste, had been used. The glass with his "morning after" potion in it, a combination of meds for the headache, vitamins was gone, the glass still wet from the water used to wash them down.

He smiled. He couldn't remember anything about Krycek that indicated that drinking was a regular habit of his. He doubted that the man even rarely allowed himself to get into that condition. And, somehow, Skinner also knew that Krycek would have himself well in hand by the time he came out of the shower.

He waited as the water was shut off, a hand came out from behind the shower curtain to reach for a towel. The curtain was pushed back and Skinner watched as Krycek, one end of the towel wrapped around his stump, managed to dry his own back. Skinner felt admiration for the man who had worked out a way of taking care of himself without ever asking for help.

Krycek didn't look surprised when he stepped out of the tub and realized he was no longer alone.

The two men stared at each other, Skinner letting his eyebrows rise slightly at Krycek's stony-faced expression. He was about to ask what the matter was when Krycek allowed the towel to drop, its weight dragging it off the stump. The movement caught his eye and he forced himself not to react at the sight of heavily scarred tissue.

Krycek's chin rose as if in challenge, but his voice revealed only slight curiosity. "Still want to fuck this body silly?"

While they had been working together, Skinner had tried to find that young, green, enthusiastic agent who had stirred his libido all those years ago. He had soon given up in frustration. The Krycek who had worked with them to find Mulder had nothing in common with that intriguing man. Skinner had had to accept that Krycek was long gone. Had he even existed? Until last night, when he had found him again in the drunken man who had brought him a gift he hadn't wanted.

Skinner sighed. He felt certain that this Krycek had all his walls firmly up again. It would be, he thought almost happily, an interesting challenge to bring them down.

He straightened, pulled away from the doorway. Took the steps needed to place him just in front of the man still waiting for his reaction.

"You did brush your teeth?"

Skinner caught himself from smiling: Krycek hadn't expected that.

A bit taken aback, Krycek nodded.

"Good." And Skinner leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

Krycek's initial reaction was to pull back. Skinner countered that with a hand that gently, but firmly, cupped the side of Krycek's head, holding it still. He deepened the kiss, taking advantage of Krycek's surprise to slip his tongue into the man's mouth, tasting mint toothpaste with a remnant of the slightly sour taste he must have had in his mouth when he'd awakened.

Krycek didn't participate, but then neither did he try to end this exploration of his mouth.

Skinner pulled back, smiled. "Coffee's ready." He caressed the cheek he held with his thumb. "I put your shaver on the counter. You might want to use it." He turned to leave, stopped at the door. "And I took the liberty of bringing in your knapsack from the car. It's on the bed."

Skinner swallowed his smile as he watched Krycek come into the kitchen, head held stiffly, as if trying to keep it balanced on his shoulders.

Krycek accepted the mug of coffee, shook his head --cautiously -- at the offer of food.

Skinner waited until he had downed about half the hot liquid. "How's the head?"

Krycek looked at him as if he were wondering if this was a trick question. Then he sighed slightly, made a small grimace. "Making its presence felt," he finally admitted.

Skinner grinned. "A few more glasses of water, a nap and you'll find that it's screwed on as tightly as it used to be."

"Yeah, well..."

Skinner caught the laugh: he didn't think that Krycek was up to loud noises just yet. Krycek put the empty mug down, pushed the chair away from the table and made to stand.

"You can crash on the sofa. I've tested it out a few times and it's a good place to nap."

Krycek seemed uncomfortable. "I don't think it would be a good idea."

"The sofa? Okay, you can take the bed if you prefer."

Krycek looked up at Skinner. "No. Not the sofa. The nap. Look, I'll just get my things and I'll go."

"Go? Where do you intend going, Alex?" He went on, not really giving him the time to answer, taking advantage of Krycek's slowed reactions, probably due to the headache he must be feeling. "It seems to me that since you had already made...long-term travel plans, I doubt that you have anywhere to return to. And since you brought your knapsack with you, I'm equally certain you have all you thought you'd need for your...ah... vacation."

Something in the expression in Krycek's eyes made him put a stop to the teasing.

"Look, Alex, you asked me a question this morning that I really didn't answer. To be honest, I'd like to wait a few days to give you an answer. See how things go. Besides, right now, you're not at your best. Not really a good time to make decisions. Take a nap. Get rid of that headache. We'll take the time to see if I really have forgiven you for nanocytes. And for you to be really certain that you want to go to bed with a middle-aged, balding tavern owner. By the way, do you fish?"

The question caught Krycek off guard.

Skinner grinned. "Alex, do you fish?"

Krycek started to shake his head, decided it wasn't that good an idea. "No." From the expression on his face, it was obvious he was having trouble figuring out what fishing had to do with all this.

Skinner stood up. "You'll like it. It's a very soul-satisfying activity. Very soothing. Even when you don't catch anything. I'll take you later this week." He gestured to the living-room with his head. "Why don't you go grab that nap? That should take care of what's left of that headache. I've got some work to do downstairs."

As he passed Krycek, he placed his hand on his shoulder, squeezed gently. "Look, Alex, it's not as if there were anything urgent you have to see to. Stay. I told you we would talk. And we need to. Give it a chance, will you?"

Skinner stood in the archway between the kitchen and the living room and watched Krycek make jerky little movements in his sleep. He wouldn't be an easy bed-mate.

He sighed. He had questions to ask and he knew Krycek would probably not answer many, if any, of them. Mulder had been right about that: Krycek rarely asked questions. At the time they had formed an alliance, Skinner had noticed that he would listen, gather information before making a comment which would usually elicit a fair amount of activity. And probably because he didn't ask questions, he didn't answer them either.

That would have to change. It wouldn't be easy to get Krycek to talk, but Skinner thought he would, with time. As he had told Krycek, where else did he have to go?

Even in his sleep, Krycek must have sensed he was being watched. He opened his eyes, immediately focused on the man lounging in the entrance.

"You've got time to wash up," Skinner turned back into the kitchen, surreptitiously watching Krycek sit up, rub the sleep out of his face.

Supper was silent, not uncomfortably so. Krycek helped with the wash-up.

"You want to come down? I told Ted I'd close up tonight. There are a couple of pool tables, if you're interested. And a hockey game on TV."

Krycek settled at the same table he'd taken over last night but stuck to a draft which Skinner noticed he never really drank. At one point he moved over to a vacated pool table and started playing shots. Skinner grinned. He was good -- of course he would be, thought Skinner -- good enough to attract the attention of a couple of the local talent who were also very good.

The games were played with bare efficiency. The first was a sort of testing ground for ability, the second for pushing against the newcomer. The third was a real contest. One of the locals won that one, but Skinner wasn't sure whether that was just diplomacy on Krycek's part.

By the time the place had been shut and all the after-closings had been handled, Skinner thought that this might be a good time for some conversation.

Instead, when he shut the apartment door behind him, Skinner found himself pushed against the wall and his mouth taken in a way that basically put an end to that idea...or any other...besides the obvious.

He did try, once, to direct Krycek to matters other than what he had in mind, but gave up. It was hard to bring up the subject of talking when he had another's tongue in his mouth. And when his mind was blanking out in reaction to the hand that had found its way into his jeans, firmly stroking his cock into life.

He had wanted them to have a few days to get used to each other, to see if there was really anything there between them. Right now, he had to admit there was: two cocks quickly demanding attention.

He did manage finally to pull back enough to get one word out. "Bed." He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he was too old for this against-the-wall or, as they seemed to be directed, on the cold-hard-floor sex stuff. He wanted to be comfortable.

Krycek seemed to like the idea as he steered them both out of the kitchen and somehow into the bedroom.

Between them, they undressed themselves and each other, except for Krycek's t-shirt which he wouldn't allow Skinner to pull off him. They weren't particularly gentle with each other. They would both be bruised, bear suck marks, teeth marks but that seemed less important than the need to satisfy the urging of their cocks.

Krycek dropped back onto the bed, pulling Skinner on top of him. Skinner retained enough sanity to prop his weight up on his hands, allowing Krycek room to breathe. He rubbed his groin down hard as Krycek lifted his hips to meet his. Krycek's hand gripped Skinner's ass, pulling it to him: his fake was draped over Skinner's shoulder, as if to keep him from leaving. Skinner groaned, moved one of his hands to grip Krycek's hair, holding his head still and welded their mouths together.

Skinner let go the hair, shifted his weight to his other hand, slipped the freed one to between their bodies. His hand added the final touch. With a shout, Skinner came, shooting his cum over both their bodies. Krycek needed only an extra jerk or two to arch, head thrown back, and come with a low, throaty moan.

They lay, torsos on the bed, legs hanging off as their bodies cooled, their breathing returned to normal. Skinner slowly pushed himself up. Krycek was lying, arm over his eyes, mouth still slightly gasping for breath.

With a rueful grin for the muscles he knew would make themselves felt the next day, Skinner went and got a wet cloth. Krycek lay still as he cleaned their cum off his body, grunted his thanks.

He did move, with a jerk, when Skinner started to slip his hand under his t-shirt with the intention of removing the prothesis. Krycek sat up, removed it himself, placing it on the floor just under his side of the bed. Skinner took note that Krycek was not yet comfortable with his touching the arm. And that there was a small ottoman in the room he was using as his office that would be the right height and size for that side of the bed so that the arm would not spend the night on the floor.

Without a word, Krycek settled on his left side, back to Skinner. Equally silently, Skinner turned off the light, lay down, facing the back of the man he had just had sex with. This hadn't been in his plans, he sighed, but then, when had Krycek ever followed his plans? Still, there was something that had to be made clear.

"Don't think you can use sex to avoid talking to me, Alex."

From his side of the bed, Krycek gave a soft snore.

It didn't get any better.

Krycek stayed, helped in the bar without Skinner's having to ask him, played pool with the locals who appreciated a good game and barely allowed Skinner to make it into the bedroom every night without an erection.

Not that Skinner particularly minded at first. Hell, it had been some time since he'd done more than masturbate. Life in a small town was peaceful after D.C., but everyone knew everyone else's business. And he was horny. The feel of that expert hand on his cock, or that talented mouth closing around it literally shut his brain down so that he couldn't have put two cohesive thoughts together if his life depended on it.

But this wasn't what he wanted, not really. For one thing, it was too one-sided for him. Sure he enjoyed having the top of his head blown off, and he knew that Krycek came too, but almost as an aside to his coming.

And that made him uncomfortable. That, and the look that he caught, now and then, in Krycek's eyes, a hunger, a longing that he sometimes couldn't hide.

After ten days, Skinner had had enough.

Oh, they were adjusting well to each other in the small everyday things. Krycek put the cap back on the toothpaste, didn't leave the counter a mess, did laundry without being asked to. Skinner was getting used to finding Canadian French newspapers with his New York Times, Washington Post when he picked up things in town, having some of his customers come in looking for "his pool shark". And the wary pleasure of having a body in his bed again.

That night, he was the one who pushed Krycek against the wall as they came into the apartment, the one whose hand slipped into the other's pants. The one who brushed the other's hand away. The one who directed them into the bedroom.

Once there, he still forced his control on the situation. He didn't allow Krycek to take off his own clothes: *he* undressed him, even removing that bloody t-shirt that Krycek never removed. And doing so with the light still on.

Krycek froze as Skinner's hands undid the straps holding the prosthesis in place. His face lost what little expression it had when he removed the arm from the stump. He stood still, like a man waiting for judgement, as Skinner took off his own clothes.

"On the bed, Alex. On your back."

After a long moment, Krycek's head moved, in the slightest of nods, and he did as Skinner ordered.

Without Skinner's saying more, he took the position in the middle of the big bed, his hand reaching overhead, gripping one of the spindles in the headboard. He never looked at Skinner, focusing his eyes on something only he could see on the ceiling.

Skinner sat down next to the body stretched out for his inspection. And he did look his fill. It was still a good body, considering the man's age, the life he had led. Attractive, drawing, in spite of the stump, the scars. The shoulders were straight, the upper muscles defined. The smooth chest with the small brown nipples tempting. The waist trim, trimmer than his own which was now a little less trim than his days with the Bureau. The hips narrow, the thighs and legs strong. The body of a man who depended on his body to keep him alive and it had not failed him. Even though from the puckered scars, the long thin lines that appeared here and there, it was obvious that some had tried to put an end to that life.

That Krycek was not going to be as easy a lay as he had been didn't deter him. He had known when he invited Krycek into his bed that the man was firmly barricaded. Well, maybe not that firmly. He had seem glimpses now and then of the man he wanted in his bed. Tonight, he fully intended to pull down at least one of those walls.

He made himself comfortable next to Krycek and settled in for a long siege. None of this hard and fast business tonight. He began just by using his hand. A gentle stroke that lightly caressed the skin of the tight face, the strong throat, that played with the thick hair until, finally, those eyes moved from the ceiling to his.

Then he bent over and claimed the mouth that was far more talented than his own, playing with it until again, finally, there was an almost timid response, a hesitant participation. Skinner pulled back and smiled at the man looking up a him, a hint of confusion on his face.

Skinner said nothing through the gentle assault he conducted on the body beside him. Krycek was not a man to be moved with words. Well, not at this stage. Maybe not for some time. Skinner was more than content to let his hands speak for him. And Krycek lay accepting until Skinner's hands moved to caress the stump, then he made to pull away. Skinner stopped him just by placing a hand on his chest, softly whispering, "No." Krycek was quick to hide the flash of fear that passed over his face, then, as if resigned, he let the stump be touched. Skinner let his hands massage some of the tension out of the remaining biceps, bent and placed a kiss on the rough, keloid tissue at the end of it. Krycek jerked as though in pain, settled immediately. Skinner moved his hands onto Krycek's chest, feeling the small breath of relief as he did so.

They would have to work on that, he thought, bringing his mouth down on the nearer brown nub that seemed to be calling for his attentions.

As his hands explored Krycek's body, Skinner used his mouth to follow, further sensitizing already sensitive skin. By the time his mouth reached Krycek's hips, the man's lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes clenched. The body he was playing with was covered in a fine sheen of salty sweat, moved spastically as though beyond the man's control. Skinner wondered, in passing if it counted as sadism what he was doing, the time it was taking him to do it? Then decided if it were, it was a sadism the other had need to experience.

Those cat-green eyes opened again when he moved to between Krycek's legs. He raised his head and they were heavy, dark with arousal. Skinner realized that he had never seen them look that way in any of their previous sexual encounters.

He sat cross-legged between the spayed legs, the tips of his fingers barely skimming from knee, up the inside of thighs to just by the now rampant cock, and then back down again. Krycek whimpered. Skinner held his eyes. Did it again. And again. With each passage, coming closer to cock, but never actually touching. Krycek couldn't stop his hips from jerking, spread his legs even further apart and inched his ass closer to Skinner. Skinner rewarded him by passing a teasing fingertip over his scrotum. The whimper grew louder. Skinner wondered who had taught Krycek to be so silent during sex?

Skinner captured the velvety sac in both his hands and Krycek dropped his head back onto the bed, his body arching from the top of his head to the hips by Skinner's. Carefully keeping watch on the man's body -- he didn't want him coming until he'd gotten what he wanted -- Skinner carefully played with the testes, rolling them, gently squeezing, tugging when he thought Krycek was getting too close to release. Then he reached for the condom, the lube he had placed under the covers when he had made these plans earlier in the day.

He quickly rolled the condom on his own erection, lubed it generously. Krycek lifted his head, understood what was coming next, raised his knees to allow Skinner easier access to his anus. Skinner smiled at him, warmed the lube in his hand and rolled his fingers in it. Krycek grunted softly when the first finger teased his hole. Skinner took care when he inserted it into his ass. They hadn't had penetrative sex yet and he didn't think that Krycek had had any for some time: he was too hungry in their encounters.

When he thought Krycek was ready to accept his cock, Skinner said, "Let go of the railing, Alex." He pulled the man's hips closer, leaned over, placed the head of his cock at Krycek's anus and slowly penetrated. He waited a breath or two until he was sure that Krycek was comfortable with him in there, then he reached over, grabbed Krycek's arm and pulled him so that he was now sitting in his lap, thighs pressed to Skinner's hips, fully impaled on his cock.

Krycek groaned.

Skinner took a deep breath, smiled. "Okay, Alex. Put your arm around my shoulders. Good. Now then, don't move, but keep me hard. You can do that, can't you?"

Skinner looked into the eyes that, though heavy with their own arousal, were watching him intently. Krycek gave a small nod, clenched his ass. Skinner gasped, grinned. He wrapped his arms around the slick hips, holding them close, and concentrated his mouth on the pebbly nubs that had proven to be so very sensitive.

While Krycek's ass muscles reacted to the play of Skinner's mouth on his chest, the grip Skinner had on Krycek's hips meant that he could barely move to ease the demands of his own cock. Skinner enjoyed what they were doing to each other but he had plans. He tumbled Krycek back onto the bed, following him down. Krycek gasped as the breath was partially knocked out of him by Skinner's weight. Skinner took the time to stretch out his legs, moaning slightly as the blood recirculated properly.

"You have a decision to make here, Alex."

He raised himself off Krycek's chest, looked into eyes that were paying attention.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" He could see the yes to that beginning to form. "Or do you want me to make love to you?"

The yes in Krycek's eyes turned to surprise, then wary confusion.

"Alex, I know you're very experienced. Talented. In no time at all, you can make me forget that I'm anything other than my cock. But that's fucking. And you're very good at it. But has anyone ever made love to you, Alex?"

He got his answer in the stillness of the body beneath him. "I like fucking, Alex, but I really enjoy making love. Let me make love to you."

They were still joined. Slowly Skinner began moving, his mouth once more against Krycek's skin. But this time, between the licks, the small bites, there were words. "I love the way you taste when you're all sweaty, Alex. Do you have any idea how dark your eyes get when you're really aroused? Don't bite your lips like that. Let me hear those sounds that are trying to get out. Your skin is like silk. Your cock is so hard, Alex. I'm going to love having that up my ass next time. Easy now. I'm going to come first, then I'm going to take care of you. Oh, god! ALEX! You feel so good! So very good."

Lifting himself, Skinner slipped a hand down between them, took hold of Krycek's cock. With a couple of firm strokes brought him to completion. The loud shout made Skinner grin: Krycek usually came with a low moan.

"Beautiful. You're just so beautiful when you come, Alex."

Krycek lay panting on the bed, eyes closed.

Skinner carefully slipped out of him, removed the condom, disposed of it in the bathroom and came back with a wet cloth. He sponged the cum off Krycek's body, bent and kissed the slightly open mouth. Then, he dropped another on the top of his left shoulder.

Krycek was too boneless to protest as Skinner pushed and shoved him under the covers, settled behind him and pulled him into his arms. Krcyek fell asleep before he could find the energy to pull away.

Skinner woke first. He propped his head up on an elbow and examined the face of the man he had decided would be his lover. It was more relaxed than he could remember seeing it. Maybe, he thought, feeling rather pleased with himself, Krycek was good at fucking, but it seemed he was pretty good at making love.

Krycek turned onto his back, made a sleepy sort of sound. He raised his arm as if to stretch and the gesture woke him. He seemed surprised to be feeling so relaxed.

"Good morning."

Krycek opened his eyes. After a bit, he returned the greeting. "Morning."

"Ah," said Skinner, "but is it a good one?" He didn't think Krycek was going to answer that question. He was so very good at avoiding answering questions.

But he did answer, almost warily. "Yes. It is."

Skinner rewarded him with a kiss. Even with morning breath, his mouth was appealing. He pulled back, reached out with his free hand to smooth back the hair off Krycek's face. He especially wanted to see his eyes.

"So, Alex, I think it's time we worked out a deal here."

The sleepy eyes went almost blank.

"The deal is as follows. You can fuck me anywhere you want in the apartment. Even in the bar. On the condition, of course, that we're alone down there. But here, in this bed, we only make love. Is that agreeable to you?"

Skinner kept a careful watch as the eyes slowly warmed.

Krycek nodded.

"No, Alex. Not good enough. I need to hear you say the words."

The tip of Krycek's tongue made its way across his lower lip. Skinner wondered just how hard a commitment this was on Krycek's part.

But he did get his words. Hesitant, but what he wanted to hear. "I can fuck you anywhere I want but in this bed we only make...love." The last word was whispered.

Skinner smiled, nodded. His hand still stroked hair back in a soothing gesture. This time his kiss was returned. With enthusiasm.

Skinner laughed, slipped out of bed. He held out his hand. "Come on. Delivery day today. But we have time for a shower."

Skinner turned from having his back washed when Krycek suddenly dropped to his knees, went down on him. After, Krycek looked up, eyes blinking back the cooling water. "Well, Walter, you did say," he spoke almost shyly, "that I could fuck you anywhere I wanted."

Skinner groaned.

Skinner was at the side door, signing the delivery invoice when the van with the darkened windows pulled in. A quick glance at the license plates was all the warning he got when the driver's door opened and Dana Scully came round to look at him, fists resting on hips.

"Walter," she took off her sunglasses, glared at him haughtily.

"Scully," he nodded in return. Then, "Dana?"

She shook her head, her tone scolding. "Walter, you could have stayed in contact."

"We all needed some time to ourselves."

She sighed, forgiving him. "Well, we're here to put an end to that."

The three other doors to the van opened and Skinner was only somewhat surprised to see Byers, Langley, Frohike come out. He knew the Lone Gunmen had decided that Scully was their special responsibility after Mulder had been abducted, that she needed someone to keep an eye on her. As Byers had informed Skinner, it was something Mulder would expect of them. He was pleased to see that Mulder's return then his newest venture had not dissuaded them of that notion. And he supposed Scully still considered them a mixed blessing.

The three men nodded, smiled or waved then reached inside the van and helped down Margaret, Melissa, Domina, and Suzanne Scully. Scully's quads. Identical quads. Exact duplicates of Scully because they were, in fact, all miniature Scullys.

Her clones.

Now just over three, they had only been a couple of months old the last time he had seen them. He was pleased to see that Dana did not belong to the school of identical clothing. The girls may have been genetically identical, but personality-wise, their differences had already been marked by the time he had left.

Scully had waited before naming them. The shock of their antecedents, the fact that there were four of them when the ultrasound had only indicated three had made her name them Baby One, Baby Two, and so on until she was certain that she could cope. She had known one of them would be named for her mother, another for her sister, but which would be which she wasn't certain.

As she introduced them to "Uncle Walter" -- Skinner raised his eyebrows at that: Scully pointedly ignored him -- he matched names to personalities.

Domina was the eldest, the alpha baby, who even when she had weighed in at barely four pounds, had made her presence certainly felt in the nursery. She wore her hair in one thick braid interwoven with a purple ribbon, purple pants, purple sweat shirt with a pink butterfly on it and small purple hiking boots. She shook hands.

Maggie wore a large fake flower pinned in her short hair, what seemed to Skinner to be one of her mother's white blouses as a tunic hitched up with a child's belt, brown leggings and boots. She grinned at him.

Zanna's long hair had come out of her ponytail as the elastic had slipped almost to the end. Her Tigger print t-shirt bore signs of whatever she'd had for breakfast, her blue jeans had a rip in one knee. She barely took the time away from checking out the yard to look at him.

The fourth child had stood back from the introductions, watching. At least Skinner assumed that she was watching. It was hard to tell behind the almost black sunglasses the child wore. Under the Tilley hat, he could tell her hair was short, though not as short as Maggie's. She was dressed in unripped jeans, with a plain, regular navy sweat shirt. She carried a large book under one arm.

"And this is Melissa, better known as Lissa," said Scully.

"Hello, Lissa." Skinner smiled at her. She gave a slight nod in acknowledgement.

The end of the introductions seemed to be a signal for the girls to take off in different directions, for the Gunmen to come over to shake hands, ask him about the bar. For Scully to yell instructions at three of her daughters who were rejoicing at being out of the van.

Maggie was inspecting the flowers that Ted's wife had planted at the front to brighten up the place. "Maggie, smell, don't pick. These aren't our flowers so leave them there."

"Yes, smell, don't pick," chirped Domina.

"Thank you, dear, but I'm sure Maggie heard me. Zanna! No, Uncle Walter may not lift you into the tree so you can climb to see how high it goes. And stay out of the garbage. You're not an archaeologist yet."

Skinner couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. Scully glared at him again. He came up to her, hugged her tightly. "God, Dana. I think I missed you."

She returned his hug, rested her head on his shoulder. "I know I missed you." She looked up. "There are lots of things we have to talk about, but it'll wait until the girls take their naps this afternoon."

He nodded. "Agreed."

"Dana!" Of the Gunmen, Byers had stayed behind while the others had gone exploring the bar. He gestured with his head toward Lissa who was standing absolutely still.

"Oh, Lissa!" Scully whispered. She released Skinner, went to crouch in front of her daughter. "Lissa! There will be none of that today." She spoke calmly but sternly. "Do you understand me? I don't want any of your Kryceking today."

"Scully!" Byers' voice was oddly embarrassed.

Scully looked up at him, then turned to see what had him squirming.

Alex Krycek, hand in jeans pocket, was standing at the bottom of the stairs that went to the apartment. Slowly, Scully stood, placed her hand protectively on her daughter's shoulder. "Krycek. What are you doing here?"

Skinner stepped in quickly. "Dana, Alex lives here now. With me. Has been for the last month."

Unspoken questions passed from Scully to Skinner, unspoken because Lissa slowly walked away from her mother, went to stand in front of Krycek. She looked up at him, as if fascinated. "Are you really Krycek?"

Krcyek dropped his gaze from Scully, who looked like she was ready to defend her child from a monster --Skinner put his hand on her shoulder -- to the child waiting for his answer. He crouched so he and the girl were at eye level. "Yes. I really am Krycek."

She took off her sunglasses, tilted her head to one side. He said nothing, did nothing, waiting through her examination of him for her reaction. Very seriously, she informed him, "My name is Lissa."

Equally seriously, Krycek nodded, said, "Mine is Alex."

Lissa nodded, turned and went back to her mother. "There really is a Krycek, moma."

Scully sighed, "Yes, baby, there is."

Lissa went to Byers who offered her his hand and they walked together into the bar, Byers wondering aloud to her if they would be able to order milk or juice in it.

"I'm going for the mail," Krycek ignored Scully. "Is there anything else I should pick up?"

Skinner turned to Scully. "Are you all staying?" Her arrival had been a pleasant surprise, but he knew Krycek's presence, though also a surprise, was not altogether a pleasant one for her. "Dana," he said softly, for her ears only, "give him a chance. Please."

Scully pulled her eyes away from Krycek, took a breath and nodded. "We've taken rooms at the motel down the road. That's where we spent last night. I didn't think you would have space for my whole circus."

Skinner smiled his thanks. "Then I guess we'll need some kid food, Alex."

"I'll go with you," Frohike who had come out of the bar, probably on Byers' suggestion, joined Krycek at Skinner's car.

Krycek shrugged, got into the driver's seat. Skinner smiled. He doubted that Frohike was going to get anything close to answers if he bothered to ask questions.

"I think maybe we should have our talk now?" Skinner offered. Scully nodded.

"So instead of Krycek, they took Mulder." Scully shrugged. "You already told me all that, Walter, when you called. What I never really understood is why they were both here anyway?"

Skinner handed her the tea she'd requested, joined her with a soft drink. "Krycek wanted to give me something he thought I wanted." At her raised eyebrows, he smiled. "Mulder." She still didn't understand. "As my lover."

Scully sat very still, didn't comment.

"I got him to understand that Mulder wasn't the one I wanted."

"So," she carefully made her way through the mine field of this information, "Mulder went back to the stars and Krycek..."

"Into my...into our bedroom." He waited while she closed her eyes, processed all this.

Without opening her eyes, she asked, "Is this what you really want, Walter?"

"Yes, Dana. It's what I really want. And if you think of it, the stars are what Mulder really wanted too."

She shrugged, eyes still shut. "Mulder can't be happy unless he's chasing down some unfindable grail. And he was so unhappy to be back. So restless. He'll be happier among his 'truths'." She opened her eyes, took a sip of her cooling tea.

"And what about Alex and myself? How do you feel about that?"

She grimaced. "Well, I can, I suppose, see the attraction. He does have a certain something. Still, I do have to wonder if you're going to get hurt in this. Krycek is not the warmest kind of person."

Skinner shrugged: Krycek could be warm enough under the proper conditions. But he was curious. "Dana, what's 'Kryceking'?"

Scully put her tea down and clasped her hands together, tightly. "I suppose he heard that."

Skinner nodded.

Scully sighed. "You know, when the girls were born and we discovered...what they were, I thought to myself, that if there was the slightest difference among them, I would really encourage that. I mean, it's bad enough that they're genetic copies of me, but I wanted them to be different."

"They are."

Scully's smile thanked his confirmation. "Domina reminds me that there is some of Bill in me. At least once a day. Zanna is the most like me, the tomboy part. Maggie, dear Maggie should have been the one I named Melissa. I never knew how much of her there was in me.

"And then there's Lissa. My baby. I tell myself, Walter, that she's the scientist in me, but that's not true. Of all of them, she's the most worrying. She's the one who resisted being held as a baby. She still doesn't like it. At best, I feel she tolerates my hugs, my touch. She has nightmares where she screams in terror and can't remember what they were when I wake her. That's the only time she'll willing let herself be held. And she watches. Watches and rarely participates. She speaks less than the others but has a far larger vocabulary. The only thing I know she really has of me is her love of books. She won't go anywhere without the book of the moment.

"And she sometimes behaves as though she wasn't part of the picture. As though she were viewing life through a microscope. Then there are these...these spells she has, when she seems barely aware that I'm standing next to her, touching her."

Skinner nodded: he knew what she was talking about. Krycek had been like that often when they had worked together. Especially the viewing them through a microscope part. He knew it had always make Scully uncomfortable.

And though things were different now, Krycek still had that intensity of concentration.

"At first, I thought she might be autistic, but the paediatrician assures me she isn't. It's just that when she's like that, my skin tingles just as it did when I was in the same room as Krycek."

"So 'Kryceking'." Skinner nodded. "Are they healthy?"

Scully sighed and laughed at the same time. "Yes, they are. Their paediatrician hates the sight of me, but yes. They're older than Emily."

She had told Skinner about Emily one day when he'd found her sitting in a chair, crying. It had been the first time he'd seen her upset since the hospital. It had taken a handkerchief, a hug before she had told him about the child who had been hers and whom she had never had.

"Healthy, full of energy and usually up to mischief. Except for Lissa." Scully stood up. "I'd better go and see what they're all up to. While you still want us to visit. The Gunmen let them get away with murder."

Under Byers' watchful eyes, Zanna was digging a hole with a stick and a long thin rock she had found. Maggie was gathering leaves that had fallen, making a bouquet. Domina was helping her, offering advice as to which leaves to take, which Maggie was cheerfully ignoring.

Lissa was sitting under a tree, glasses back on, reading her book.

Thinking of his nephews and nieces as children, Skinner asked, "Is she 'reading' or is she really reading?"

Scully smiled proudly. "She really reads. They're all advanced for their age in their reading skills. The others can recognize words here and there. But Lissa can actually read. She can plough her way through those simple readers. And she really loves being read to."

Supper was chaotic. Skinner insisted that the girls join them at the table. There were, he said, naively he admitted later, more than enough adults to handle four little girls. Scully scoffed, but decided to let him learn the lesson for himself.

Skinner thought spaghetti would be simplest for all to handle. He and Frohike made up two types of sauces, one hot and spicy, one mild for the girls. Of course when Domina insisted on having the spicier one, the two others insisted as well. Maggie loved it, the others didn't. They had to be re-served.

Skinner accidentally put cheese on Zanna's who hated cheese. Who dramatically demonstrated that she hated cheese. Domina wanted hers cut, Zanna not. Maggie tried to wind hers around her spoon and what didn't end up on her, ended up on the floor. Maggie liked the garlic bread, Domina wanted hers plain and Zanna poked holes into hers, using it as a mask.

Throughout it all, Lissa sat at her end of the table, beside Byers, and ate quietly, her eyes usually on Krycek who was sitting opposite her. And though he was keeping an eye on the comedy at Skinner's end of the table, Krycek was also very aware of the little girl's attention. Now and then he would turn his head and their eyes would hold. Not long. Maybe the space of a breath. And then Krycek would break the connection, turn his head to some new commotion among the others. But Scully noticed.

The next day, Scully successfully managed to get all the girls down for their afternoon nap in Skinner's bed and decided to take Skinner up on his offer of a chance for an undisturbed bath, a figment of her imagination since the girls had been born.

She was humming under her breath when she came out, towel wrapped around her head. In the living room she could hear two voices, a man's and a child's. It was impossible to tell which of her daughters she was hearing -- they sounded alike -- but the man's was Krycek.

She knew Skinner trusted him, but she was uneasy with his being around her children. Though she had long ago accepted his explanation of what had happened at Melissa's death, that didn't mean she was ready to forget what he was, even if Skinner seemed to have.

She hurried to rescue her child. And stood stock still in the doorway.

Dressed in her nightgown, Lissa was sitting on Krycek's lap, her head against his left shoulder, listening to him read the book she carried everywhere with her these days: Mercer Mayer's "There's a Nightmare in My Closet". Scully took a step backwards, observing the child who would never let anyone near, cuddling in the arms of an assassin.

She knew that Lissa seemed fascinated with him, but to this extent?

"Have you ever read this story before?" Lissa turned the page at Krycek's nod.

"No." Scully was surprised at the gentleness of his voice.

"Do you like it?"

She watched him give Lissa's question considered thought. "Yes. It's got a good plot."

Lissa smiled -- oh, dear God, she *smiled* at him. Her overly serious child had smiled. "I like the words."

Scully watched as Krycek nodded, continued reading. Lissa dropped her head back against his shoulder and listened happily.

Over the remaining two days of their visit, Scully carefully watched as Lissa became Krycek's shadow. Whether or not Krycek enjoyed having this shadow was not something Scully felt she could ask him. Skinner, she knew from having caught his eye now and then, was as befuddled as she was. He would smile, shrug and go back to doing whatever he was busy with while Lissa, a mulish set to her face, avoided her sisters, her mother to follow a man whom Scully didn't trust as far as she could throw him.

At the same time as Scully watched how Krycek acted around her daughter, she also watched him with Skinner. Of the two, Skinner was the first to reach out, to touch a shoulder, and arm as he passed by. Krycek didn't return the touches, but seemed to lean into them, which also seemed to be enough for Skinner. Scully had agreed to give Krycek a chance, but she still wasn't convinced that there wasn't something in this for Krycek that would leave Skinner hurt.

She did try to broach the subject, once. Skinner smiled at her, asked about her consulting business.

Lissa too appeared to see Krycek differently than her mother. She followed him about as he worked at repairing storm windows. If he asked her to do something for him, like hand him another caulking cartridge, she would carefully lay her book down, get the tube, hand it to him. He would thank her very seriously and she would smile, go back to her book.

He read to her both afternoons and once Scully even heard Lissa giggle at something he said to her.

That last morning, Scully came out onto the porch, could hear the two of them underneath where the empty beer cases were stashed, waiting for pick-up. Krycek was teaching Lissa a rhyme, in Russian she assumed as she couldn't figure out what the words were. Lissa was quick with words, had no trouble picking up the rhyme. Scully was about to go down when she heard Krycek say, "When you have those nightmares, if you say this over and over again, it'll help."

"Right away, Alex?"

Scully's heart caught at the hope in Lissa's voice.

"No. Sorry, Lissa, not right away. But if you do it every time, you'll get better at it and soon they won't be so scary. It's like a spiderweb. It starts small, but with time, it grows bigger and bigger until it's big enough to protect the spider."

"Okay." She repeated the rhyme again. Krycek corrected her pronunciation once, then complimented her when she got through it twice, perfectly.

"Alex?"

"Hmmm?" Alex lifted her off the cases, set her down in the yard.

"I love you."

It would have been hard to say who was the more shocked, Scully or Krycek. Scully had never heard Lissa say those words to anyone other than her sisters and herself. From the top of the porch, she watched Krycek crouch to her level. "Be careful, kid," he stroked her cheek with the back of a finger. "Saying things like that to me will get you booted out of the Scully tribe."

Scully watched as Lissa laughed, not really understanding, allowed Krycek to hook the side of her hair around an ear. "Remember the rhyme, Lissa."

She recited it again for him.

"Perfect."

Scully must have made a sound because Krycek looked up.

"Here's your mother. Must be time to go."

Scully herded her gang into the van, got everyone settled, and went to give Skinner a final hug.

"Dana, you'll come again?"

She smiled, "With my full circus? Are you sure? I didn't think you were that much of a glutton for punishment."

Then she surprised Krycek by going up to him. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For the time you spent with Lissa."

Krycek shrugged. "She's a good kid."

Scully smiled. "Yes, she is. Thank you just the same."

A week later, at three thirty in the morning, the phone rang. Skinner reached for it, grumbled "Serge here."

"Walter, it's Dana."

Skinner sat up. In the background he could hear a child crying hysterically. "Dana, what's wrong?"

"Is Krycek there?"

"Yes, why?"

"Please, Walter, pass him the phone. Lissa's had another of those nightmares and she's forgotten the rhyme Krycek taught her. I can't get her to calm down."

Skinner handed a groggy Krycek the phone, watched him come fully awake as Scully explained.

"Put her on," he pulled the pillow up behind him and propped himself up. "Lissa. Lissa! Listen to me."

Skinner listened as for an hour Krycek repeated over and over again the rhyme he had taught the child as a mantra against the terrors of the night. At one point, he got up, went and got Krycek a glass of water when his voice began hoarsening. Krycek gulped some down, started the rhyme again. At one point, Lissa's voice joined with his, but he continued until Scully finally said into the phone, "She's asleep."

"Will you remember it?" he rasped.

"Yes. I can probably chant it backwards in my sleep."

"Get her going with it as soon as she wakes up from the dream. It's the rhythm that's important."

"Krycek..."

"Do you want to speak to Walter?"

"No. I'll go put my daughter to bed and let the two of you go back to sleep. And Krycek...thanks again."

Krycek grunted into the phone, handed it to Skinner and buried his head in his pillow.

Six weeks later, there was another phone call. From Langley.

Lissa had disappeared.

Skinner got them to Scully's by paying a local with a private plane to fly them down.

"She disappeared yesterday afternoon. One minute she was there, reading her book, on the front steps, the next she was gone." Langley passed a frustrated hand through his long tangled hair. "The girls know they're not to leave the yard. I could understand it if it were Zanna, but Lissa?"

"What about the police? What's their position on this?" Skinner looked up as Frohike snorted. "What?"

"No cops. Because of what the girls are. She doesn't want to have to explain the same DNA...you know, in case anything happens. So, she's refused to call the cops in on this. She's pulled in a few favours from people at the FBI, had them searching along with us all last night, this morning. The most anyone can come up with is there was a black car with darkened windows in the area at about the time yesterday when Lissa was missed. We've searched all sorts of records trying to locate the car, who could own it, but so far nothing we've come up with has panned out."

"Where are the girls?" Skinner had finally realized that the house was too quiet.

"Byers took them to Scully's mother. He's staying there with them. Him and another of Scully's pals. The girls know something is up, but not what."

Skinner nodded, looked over to Krycek who had, since the phone call, become more and more withdrawn. Skinner was used to seeing him stand watching, but it suddenly irritated him that he had picked this time to do what Scully called 'Kryceking'.

Scully arrived from yet another round of searching the neighbourhood. It didn't take Skinner more than one glance to know she was hanging on by the skin of her teeth.

"Thank you for coming." She tried hard to sound very composed. Skinner pulled her into his arms and held her while she cried. She recovered quickly, pulled back, went into agent mode. She reported to Skinner all that she had organized in their search for her daughter. It might all have been unofficial, but it was no less professional for that.

Langley manned the phones, Frohike monitored the computer while Scully and Skinner reviewed all the possibilities they could come up with.

"None of that's going to help."

One by one the group turned to look at Krycek.

"What do you mean, not going to help?" Langley and Frohike slowly stood away from their stations.

"What the hell do you know, Krycek?" Scully challenged, her tone accusing. She hadn't trusted him and now she was going to be proven right. But at what cost? "What do you know about my daughter's disappearance?"

Skinner put his hand on her arm; she shook him off, ready to confront Krycek. "If you have anything to do with Lissa's disappearance, I will kill you. Like you should have been killed a long time ago, Krycek!"

Skinner quickly placed himself between Krycek and the others. "Alex? Why is none of this going to help?"

Krycek didn't answer him, just kept on looking at Scully. "Have you," he spoke slowly, as if the words were difficult to find, harder to get out, "wondered why Lissa and I...get along?"

"Yeah," snapped Langley. Frohike, eyes on Scully, nodded.

Scully stood up. "Tell me," she bit out.

"It's because she recognizes I am what she is."

"Which is?"

"A clone like she is. A Fourth One."

Scully turned her head slightly, as if to hear him better. "Are you telling us that you're a..."

"A clone. Clones aren't new, Scully. The Consortium has been developing them...us...for some time now. Not all the scientists involved in genetic mutations were eliminated or neutralized. There were still one or two around at the time of your impregnation."

"What has this to do with Lissa?"

"She's a Fourth One. I am, too. You yourself recognized that we have similarities. Remember, what you call 'Kryceking'."

Skinner got Scully to sit down, glared at the other two to back off. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, calming the feelings churning inside him. Krycek was focused on Scully, ignoring him, the others in the room. The closed look on his face reminded Skinner of the man who had so unemotionally killed him. It gave him the creeps. Still, once he released the breath, the AD was firmly back in charge.

"Alex, what is this 'Fourth One' business you keep referring to?"

Krycek slouched back against the wall, rubbed his hand over his face. "The reason for cloning was originally to have human organic material to work with for hybrid experiments. What they really wanted was to create a master race of their own.

"Most of the early attempts ended in failure. The surrogate bearers aborted easily. If the fetus was carried to term, usually what was born was not really human. Once in a while, there was an element of success, but the product usually had little to no intelligence. They did have the occasional successes, but most of them did not survive the initial hybrid experiments."

"But if you are as you say a clone, then you did," Skinner pointed out.

Krycek gave a sort of laugh that had no humour in it at all. "Yeah. *We* did. It was a fluke that took them years to reproduce, but yeah, my...co-clones and I did survive. Our 'Original' was one of the genetic scientists. They separated us at birth, placed us in different environments. Ran constant tests on us and that's how they discovered that I was different from the others.

"The others were pretty much 'normal' in their responses: mine were different. I was less responsive in some areas, more so in others." He looked up at the group staring at him. "It was as if there was only so much humanity to divide among us all. I was the last born. By the time 'humanity' got to me, it was pretty much all used up. A great deal of my responses are learned ones."

"Lissa's not like that," Scully snapped.

Krycek met her glare straight on. "No. I seem to have been the prototype. Lissa is the refined model."

"Lissa is not a thing!" Scully's anger was rising.

"No, *she's* not. But she does have certain abilities that would make her very interesting to the scientists who are still around."

Skinner tried out an idea that had begun to take form in his mind. "You two can communicate."

Krycek nodded. "Faintly. I don't quite know why, but Fourth Ones seem for some reason to have a kind of link with each other."

"Like Gibson Praise, you can read minds?" Scully was trying to find a reference for this information she could grasp.

Krycek shook his head. "Praise was a different experiment. He can read anyone's mind. We can only feel each other. If we're close enough, we can hear each other."

"How much experience do you have with this...link?" Skinner was wondering just what X-File he had dropped into this time.

Krycek shrugged. "I know there were several Fourth Ones created. Seems we occur by some fluke. They've tried to replicate that 'fluke', but for some reason, it doesn't work that way. I read about that in the data I went through when we were searching for a way to find Mulder in the Consortium files. Personally, I only know of a couple of others. And they're both dead now."

"How did they die?"

For a moment, Skinner thought Krycek wouldn't answer. Then he did, and for Scully's sake, he wished he hadn't.

"One of them, a female, went berserk and when they tried to subdue her, they accidentally killed her. The other, a male, blew his brains out."

"The female, was she an Eve?" Scully never noticed when Langley placed his hands on her shoulders.

"No. The 'Eves' were a different cloning experiment. They were created one at a time, in a test tube. Each carried by different surrogates. Like Lissa, I and my co-clones were created at the same time and were carried to term in the same womb. Again, for some reason they've never been able to duplicate, all that makes a difference."

"Are the others, the ones you call 'co-clones', are they still alive?"

"I have no idea. When they proved not to have special talents, the hybrid geneticists lost all interest in them. I could find no further documentation on them. I was the one who interested them."

"The rhyme you taught her. The rhyme has something to do with this. Doesn't it?"

"It has to do with the nightmares. The boy...the male who killed himself was the clone of their leading scientist. He was brilliant. He figured out a way to control the nightmares, to lessen their effect."

Scully needed to know. "What are the nightmares?"

Krycek opened his mouth to answer. Stopped. Shrugged. "They're hard to explain. We have them, but then we don't remember them. The most I ever remember is sound and darkness. We didn't really discuss them, the few times I and another Fourth were together."

"But this ability this Fourth-ness gives you, it's what allowed you to communicate with the Rebel Aliens, isn't it?"

Krycek nodded. "A relatively new discovery."

"How new?"

Krycek managed to look disinterested. "Since the silo. Before that, all they knew was that Fourths could feel each other out if in the same area, could hear each other if they were close enough. If I had to guess about the nightmares, I would say that they're our reaction to extra-terrestrial influences. Would explain why they often occur when there are sightings reported."

Scully was not particularly interested in the sightings. "What does the rhyme have to do with all this?"

"The words aren't important, but the rhythm is. The Fourth Martin figured that it sets up a sort of electrical short-circuit to the part of the brain that produces the nightmares."

"But he killed himself," Frohike said aloud what they were thinking.

Krycek shrugged again. "That had nothing to do with the nightmares. That had to do with the experimentation they were doing on him."

"That they'll do on Lissa."

Krycek looked at Scully, said nothing.

"So, how do we find her, Alex?" Skinner finally asked.

"You don't. I do. If you'll allow?" He waited until Scully reluctantly nodded. "Will you permit me to sit in her room, where her things are? If she's still in the area, I'll have a better chance to feel her if I know what she feels like."

She brought him up to the room Lissa shared with Zanna. It was easy to tell which side of the room was hers. Zanna's things were scattered all over her side: Lissa's was in the type of order mothers only dreamed of.

"Krycek?"

He looked over his shoulder, waiting for what she had to say to him.

"I meant it. If you're in any way involved in this, I will kill you."

"Yes. I know."

"How long will you need?" Skinner suddenly realized that though Krycek met Scully's eyes, Krycek no longer met his.

"I don't know. I'll know more if I could be left alone."

Scully looked like she wanted to protest, then, at Skinner's urging, she went back downstairs. Skinner waited behind, wondering if Krycek was going to look at him, say something to him. Instead Krycek turned his back, reached for the book that Lissa had on her night table, sat on her bed, and leafed through the book. Skinner sighed, closed the door quietly behind him.

He never saw Krycek double up, as if in pain.

It was a long fifty minutes.

Scully spent them at the computer. Frohike had hacked into the FBI data bank, found the Consortium Folder and had rummaged through until he'd found the cloning experiments that Krycek had referred to. Then he'd given her his seat, read over her shoulder.

At his computer, Langley continued trying to find a lead on Lissa's whereabouts using more traditional means.

Skinner made coffee, called in a few favours and tried to reconcile the man he had come to know and care for over the past months with all the new information Krycek had given them.

He took them all unaware when he did come back into the room.

Skinner turned from refilling Langley's mug when he saw Krycek standing silently in the doorway. "Alex?"

Everyone turned.

"I need your help," Krycek ignored Skinner for Frohike.

"You know where she is?" Frohike took a step forward.

"I think so."

"You've got it."

Langley handed Frohike another piece of tape. Frohike carefully placed it on the padding holding the thin plastic gun in place.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Langley asked for the fifth time.

"Shut up," Frohike told him, also for the fifth time.

Skinner was worried. Since coming down, Krycek had refused to look at him, talk with him. He was in the bathroom, with Frohike and Langley who suddenly were more sympathetic to Krycek than they had ever been.

Scully paced in small tight circles in the living room, arms wrapped around herself. She'd spoken to her three daughters before they'd gone to bed. To Byers, yet again to reassure herself that those of her children were safe. Skinner's few favours were two retired agents sitting inside Maggie Scully's house, two others outside. All were fully armed.

He again checked the Glock that Frohike had found for him, verified that the extra clips would be easily pulled out of his jacket pocket

All he knew of Krycek's plans so far was that Langley had asked if he'd be willing to drive the car for Krycek. Frohike had gone out on an errand, getting whatever it was Krycek had asked for, handing Skinner the gun when he'd come back.

Finally, the bathroom door opened and the men came out. Krycek had changed his sweater for the shirt he had packed into his knapsack and his leather jacket. His hair was still wet. He had shaved.

At Frohike's nod, Skinner grabbed his jacket and got out the keys to the car rental. Krycek started for the door. Scully blocked him.

"I want you to bring her back."

Krycek stood quietly under her glare of hate/fear, then, as if making his mind up about something, nodded. "If I can't get her to Skinner, I'll see that she doesn't get hurt."

Then he walked around her, out the door.

Skinner gave Scully's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and followed him.

Frohike waited until he heard the engine start before he too went out to his car.

In the car, Krycek spoke only to give directions. Skinner tried to ask him what was going on, but Krycek just closed his eyes, face set in concentration. So he said nothing, realizing that Krycek was more sensing his way to a specific location.

After some twenty minutes: "Here."

Skinner pulled into the back lot of what looked to be an old warehouse. The gate was open, a cut padlock dangling off a chain that must have once held the gates closed. He killed the engine and waited.

Krycek finally spoke to him, eyes staring out of the front windshield.

"I'm not going to try and tell you not to follow me. Just give me a few minutes to clear the way. And wait for my signal before you start anything."

Skinner nodded.

Krycek opened the car door and started out. Then he stopped, turned and finally looked at Skinner. "Walter. Thank you."

Skinner watched him walk up to the side door, open it. It was obviously not locked, and just as obviously, Krycek had not expected it to be locked. Skinner slowly counted to sixty, decided that enough time had passed, quietly got out of the car and went into the warehouse.

At the entrance, just inside the door, a man lay, his neck broken.

Krycek the Assassin was back at work.

There were cement steps leading up from the left, and Skinner climbed them to the cement walkway that led to what had probably once been an office. He carefully checked out the overhang, found that indeed he was the only one on it. Someone, he thought, was either very slack about security, or overly confident about it.

He looked down into the open warehouse and watched and listened.

Krycek took his time, walking slowly into the openness, heading for the area where one hanging light was shining down on the little girl strapped onto an ambulance stretcher.

He stepped into the yellowish circle of light, but only enough to see that her eyes were closed, her face calm.

Then he turned to face the people on the other side of the circle, in the shadows.

One quick glance told him that to either side there were men holding automatic weapons.

"Marita Covarrubias, we meet again."

The woman took a step forward, coming partially into the light. "Alex," she sneered. And pointed her weapon at him.

Krycek held his hands out from his side, showing he was holding nothing. At a signal from Covarrubias, one of the armed men came forward. He found the knife in the boot, the ankle holster with its small weapon, the other at the back of Krycek's belt, and tossed them into the dark beyond the light. His hands frisked efficiently, yet quickly -- this was Krycek after all, and he didn't want to be too close to him for any length of time. They all knew that guard at the door was dead or Krycek wouldn't be here, standing in front of them.

"Well," said a new voice.

Skinner on the overhang froze: he knew that voice.

"I suppose," continued the voice, "we have you to thank for the female's condition."

"Actually, the Fourth Martin. He figured out which electrical brain waves were necessary to block outside influences. And which thought patterns created such waves."

A man stepped into the light and Skinner knew he was seeing what Alex Krycek would look like in thirty years.

"Creator." Krycek bowed his head in acknowledgement.

The hair was still abundant, but grey. The body thicker, elegantly garbed in a charcoal grey suit whose cut screamed money. The face thinner, sharper. But the cold arrogance, thought Skinner, was the man's own.

"This patterning in the female is undesirable."

"Unbreakable, I think you mean, Creator." Krycek spoke quietly, his voice emotionless. "She has been in your hands for over 24 hours and she is still closed to you. I think they chose her Original for her strengths, but may not have considered just how strong Dana Scully really is."

The man Krycek called Creator began a gesture then caught himself. He slipped the hand into his pants pocket. "Not to mention that you somehow managed to include yourself in the patterning so that you are part of that strength. By herself, she is far too young to still be resisting.

"You, clone," the cold voice spoke firmly, "will do as I say. You will put an end to this...disobedience...on her part."

"Or what, Creator?" Krycek's voice was soft, tone respectful. "If I don't unblock her, you won't have a chance to do to her what you did to me. To the others. Or rather what Covarrubias will do to her on your directives. That is why she's here, isn't it?" He kept on, not really expecting answer other than Covarrubias' disdainful smirk. "And if you try to break her, you will destroy the reason you want her. Her ability...our ability...to communicate with those from beyond this world."

"An ability you used to betray us, clone."

Krycek shrugged. "I used it to betray only after Spender left me to die in the silo. Frankly, until the silo, I thought I only had that connection with other Fourth Ones. Perhaps, Creator, giving me to Spender was not such a good idea after all. I may have outgrown my usefulness to you, but your training saw to it that I never developed any feelings of loyalty towards my new master."

The Creator smiled, almost pleasantly. "True, but then he got such enjoyment out of training you for his needs." His tone became brusque. "So then, I need only remind you of your loyalty to me and you will do as I order."

"I was not aware that loyalty was something you required of me." Krycek titled his head to a side, as if considering. "Is that not an emotion, Creator? And did you not tell me often enough that as a clone emotions were something that I had to be trained to feel. Through the use of pain, the only thing you were certain I could feel."

"Perhaps I should have concentrated on training your mind more, clone. You seem to think yourself independent of me. I will remind you that you are but a thing, *clone*. A scientific experiment. And that as such I own you. Not that man who prevented you from fulfilling the plans we had determined for you. Tell me, what do you think Walter Skinner will have to say when he discovers that he has taken a clone whore to his bed?"

Krycek shrugged at the scorn. "You taught me long ago what I am, Creator."

"Well, if you will not obey me, give me what I want, then I have no reason to keep you alive. Do I?"

Krycek's hands went to his jacket: the barrels of several guns -- Skinner counted four in addition to Covarrubias's -- suddenly appeared in the light.

"You won't kill me right away, Creator." Slowly he removed his jacket, let it drop to the floor.

"You'll want to amuse yourself with me first." He toed off his boots, shoved them to one side with a stockingless foot.

The man Krycek called Creator laughed. "You think I might actually want to spend any time amusing myself with something as unappealing as yourself?" He pointed to Krycek's left arm. "When I think of all the care I took not to mar you, to leave you unblemished, what makes you think," his voice lashed out, "I am anything but repelled by you? It is obvious that my tastes are rather more refined than your present master's."

"But, Creator, you've trained me so very well for your particular passions." Krycek's hand went to his jeans and he slowly unbuttoned the fly.

"After all, once I am dead, you will never again be able to take enjoyment of yourself." The jeans were slowly stripped down. He stepped out of them, tossed them on top of the boots. He wore no shorts.

"And how many men are left who can say that they fucked themselves? That they were serviced by themselves." He unbuttoned the shirt, slowly shrugged it off his shoulders so that it slipped down his back to the floor.

Without any covering whatsoever, his cock stood hard, erect. From where he stood Skinner could see that Krycek had shaved his groin.

"See how well you trained me, Creator. My body still reacts to your presence. To the sound of your voice."

The Creator took a couple of steps closer, as if he couldn't prevent himself. "You prepared yourself for me properly, clone, as I trained you. Were you so certain that I would fall for your wiles?" He stood, eyes examining the body displayed, his lower lip caught between his teeth as though considering. "The lack of symmetry *could* be rectified. You really would have no need of that other arm, would you, to please me."

He smiled broadly at the wince Krycek couldn't prevent.

"Maybe even the legs. When I think about it, all I'd really need from you would be your mouth and your ass. It's not as though you would be going anywhere after you no longer amused me.

"And," he continued, more to himself, "there were certain experiments that I was prevented from doing on you. Experiments that were considered to be too dangerous considering your uniqueness at the time."

Slowly, arms outstretched as in worship, Krycek knelt. "It would be as you will. My Creator. My Lord. My Master.

"You will want to punish me first. As you used to. Eyes blindfolded, ears plugged, arms bound behind my back, ankles manacled together. As you trained my body to know you. To react to the mere smell of you, the possibility of your presence in the same room."

Krycek's voice was weaving a spell of its own. The Creator's face grew flushed, his breathing harsher from memories of games past. Even Marita Covarrubias reacted to the images Krycek was painting. She took a step closer, the barrel of her gun dipping slightly.

"What was it you made me say as you punished me? Oh, yes. 'Oh my God,'" Krycek's body began to bend forward, as if he were assuming a position of supplication, "'I am heartily sorry'" his arms made their way behind him as if they were being bound, "'for having offended thee'."

His hand found the plastic gun that Frohike had taped, padded, in the small of his back.

He shot Covarrubias first, then rolled out of the light, as the man on the right was shot from above. His partner turned to the direction of the shot, managed to get a couple of shots off before he too dropped.

At the same time, smoothly coming up from the roll, in rapid succession, Krycek took down the two men on the left.

The man called Creator tried for the door, dropped to floor as he reached the edge of the circle of light.

Krycek rushed to free Lissa. He fell to his knees, held her tightly in his arms, chanting the rhyme aloud, hoping he could get through to her.

Skinner walked into the light. He gave the woman and the guards only cursory inspections: he knew they were all dead.

The man who looked like Alex Krycek was not. Skinner's bullet had got him in the chest. He lay on the floor, curled upon himself, hand pressed against his wound. Blood ran between his fingers. He looked up, showed some surprise at the person who was standing there in front of him. "I have money," he gasped. "I'll make it worth your while to get me out of here."

Skinner stared down at him, at the reptilian green eyes. He listened as Krycek started the rhyme again, calling Lissa's name at the end of each line.

With no emotion, Skinner raised his gun and shot the man point blank in the face.

Frohike was the first one in. He took a quick look around, assessed the situation and pulled out his cell phone. Then, he and Skinner stood silently listening to Krycek's voice.

When Scully ran in with Langley close behind her, Skinner moved to stop her from approaching Krycek and Lissa, "No!" Then more gently, "No, Dana. Let him bring her back first."

They all stood and watched for what seemed to be an eternity as Krycek, Lissa clutched to his naked body, chanted over and over again the rhyme that had kept her from being touched by the monster who now lay dead.

His voice was beginning to rasp when faintly, occasionally, another joined his. Then with more conviction. Together they said the words that Scully mouthed from Skinner's arms.

"Lissa?" Krycek's voice was now barely audible from where they stood.

"Alex." Lissa yawned, sleepily. "I had the bad dream again."

"I know. But you said the words."

Lissa yawned again, snuggled closer to the man who held her. Krycek tightened his grip on her, rubbed his cheek on her head. Her voice was muffled against his chest: "The bad dream went away."

"Yes. And just in time. See, your moma's here. She's come for you."

Skinner let Scully go. She hurried to Krycek, knelt in front of him. He looked up at her. Carefully, almost reluctantly, he pulled Lissa away from him and passed her over to Scully. "Baby! Oh, Lissa, baby."

Lissa turned, opened her arms to her mother and snuggled. "Moma, can I have some juice?"

"Yes, baby," Scully held her tight. Over her daughter's head she smiled through her tears at Krycek. "Thank you."

Langley came to help her up: together they went out to the car.

Krycek didn't watch them leave. He stayed kneeling where he was, head lowered, shoulders raised.

Skinner scooped up his clothes, carried them over. He reached out a hand to help Krycek up but Krycek pulled back, further crouching against himself, as if to protect himself from a beating.

"Alex?"

This time when Skinner tried to touch him, Krycek made a sound, like an animal's in pain. Then, "Please, don't!"

Skinner hesitated, placed the clothes on the stretcher, then crouched in front of the man who was curled up practically into a ball.

"Alex?"

"Please," the raspy voice had barely any emotion in it, "is it permitted to know who I'll be given to?"

"Given to?" Skinner frowned, " What are you talking about, Alex?"

Head still down, Krycek shuddered. "For the experiments. For what will be done with me."

"Done with you? Alex, what makes you think you're going to be handed over to anyone for experimentation?"

"Because of what I am."

"And what are you, Alex?"

"A clone. A scientific freak. A non-human."

Skinner grabbed hold of his face, forced it up so that he could see his eyes. "Please," begged Krycek, face strained with his attempt to control his emotions, "don't hurt me. Please, leave me that."

"Leave you? Why would I leave you?"

Krycek's laugh was pain-filled. "Because he's right. I doubt that you have a place for a clone whore in your life."

"A clone whore! Alex! Oh god, love."

But Krycek shook his head frantically. "Don't call me that. It's not true."

"Why isn't it true?"

"Because I'm a clone. And a Fourth One. We aren't capable of love." On a whisper, "Or being loved. We're more automaton than human."

Skinner sat back on his heels. "Alex, what the hell are you talking about? What do you mean Fourth Ones can't be loved? Lissa, you told us, is a Fourth One. Are you trying to tell me that Dana doesn't love her daughter? Fuck that! And that Lissa doesn't love? That she doesn't love Dana? Her sisters? That she doesn't love you?"

Krycek flinched violently.

"And do you think I'm blind? That I can't see that you love her? Alex, for god's sake, tonight you put your life on the line for her. You walked into a cesspool of memories for her, to bring her out. Don't tell me you can't love!"

Skinner was unaware that his voice was rising, from his sudden fear that, in spite of finding Lissa, he was going to lose Alex.

"And don't you dare tell me you don't love me. I know you never say the words, those words, but...Damn it, Alex! You told Mulder that you cut your heart out to give me to him. If that's not a fucking declaration of love, I don't know what is!"

He suddenly heard himself, the level of his voice, the anger fear was causing. He took a deep breath and tried to get hold of himself: yelling was not going to convince Krycek that he was wrong.

He continued, more calmly. "And if you think I don't love you, then why the hell have you been staying with me?"

"All that was before," Krycek tried to explain.

"Before what? Before I saw how courageous you were for facing..."

He stopped, remembering all the so-called Creator had said, what Krycek had revealed. He put his hands on Krycek's shoulder, gently tugged. Krycek resisted: Skinner kept his hands there.

"Alex. No one is going to experiment on you. No one is going to turn you over to anyone. Not you, not Lissa. I won't let that happen. None of us will let that happen.

"Alex, love?" Krycek whimpered at the word. "He's dead. He can't hurt you any more. He'll never hurt anyone again."

Skinner pulled Krycek to him again. They waged a small, silent battle but Skinner won and Krycek came into his arms. "As for what you are. Well, you're Alex Krycek, the *man* I love, the *man* who loves me. That's all that's important, Alex."

Krycek sagged, let his head rest on the shoulder of the man who held him, tried hard to stop the sob that had lodged in his throat since he had let Lissa go, certain that all he would do is repulse now that Skinner knew the truth about him.

Skinner held Krycek tightly against him, let his head rest on that of the man sobbing painfully in his arms. He rocked him slowly in his arms, murmuring soft words of comfort only Krycek could hear.

At one point Frohike came close to them, cleared his throat noisily before approaching. Skinner continued murmuring as he looked up.

"Sorry. The guys I contacted for clean-up. They won't come in as long as you two are here. And they 're getting antsy."

Skinner nodded. "Alex? Love, we have to go. Come on. Let's get you dressed and out of here."

It took more than a few minutes: Krycek was exhausted, and Skinner basically had to dress him. Then his arm around Krycek's shoulders, they walked out, Skinner between his lover and the dead bodies waiting for removal.

Scully came into the kitchen to find Skinner already sitting at the table, coffee in hand.

He smiled tiredly at her, held up his mug. "It's fresh." Scully nodded, filled her own and joined him at the table. Through the closed glass doors to the den, she could see Krycek was still sleeping on the futon.

Skinner asked, "How is she?"

"Fine." Scully sounded surprised at that. "She woke once near dawn and asked for some more juice then went back to sleep. It would seem that to her, it was just another of her nightmares." She shook her head at that, sipped her coffee. "How's he?"

Skinner looked into the other room, "I think he'll be all right. Right now, he's drained. Like we both are. Like we all are. I think the only one who's going to cruise out of this is Lissa."

"Last night," Scully stared into her mug, "when Krycek said if he couldn't get Lissa out, he would see to it that she wouldn't be hurt...he meant he would kill her, didn't he?"

Skinner looked at her, watching her reaction. "Yes."

"Would he have been right? To do that?"

Skinner glanced at the sleeping man. "Yes. He would have."

A slight noise from behind Scully got his attention. He put a welcoming smile on his face. "Lissa. Did you sleep well, sweetheart?"

Lissa was carrying a book as usual. She placed it on the table, pulled herself up onto the chair. Skinner reached over to steady it for her climb. Scully went to the fridge. "Apple juice or grape, baby?"

Lissa knelt on the chair, already opening her book. "Apple, please."

Scully handed her the juice in a cup, smiled at her then shrugged at Skinner. "All seems to be normal on the Scully front this morning."

Lissa was into her cereal when she looked at the two people watching her. "I had the nightmare again last night," she announced.

"Yes," agreed Skinner.

"Is that why Alex is here?"

"Yes, baby." Scully wondered if it was really going to be this easy. "But it's all over now."

Lissa nodded, went back to her book and cereal. She finished both at the same time. She closed the book, climbed down off the chair. Skinner handed her the book. "Thank you," she smiled.

She walked to the door of the den, opened it and went in to look at Krycek, who was twitching in his sleep. She lay the book on the bed, climbed up, sat herself comfortably next to him and opened up her book. When he stirred, she lay one of her hands on his shoulder, softly chanted the words that Scully knew none of them would ever forget. Krycek sighed, settled.

In the kitchen, Skinner and Scully exchanged raised eyebrows.

Lissa had read her book through twice when Krycek finally opened his eyes.

"Hello, Alex."

"Lissa."

"You had the nightmare, too, Alex. I said the words with you and we were both safe."

"Yes, you did. Thank you."

Lissa bent and kissed his stubbled cheek. "You itch," she gave a soft giggle.

From beyond the doorway Scully called. "Lissa. We have to go pick up your sisters. Come get dressed."

Skinner waited until they had gone upstairs to go into the room. Krycek lay on his back, watching, waiting, Skinner thought, as if all the reassurance he had given last night meant nothing.

He sat on the side next to Krycek, carefully reached out to smooth back the hair off his face. "I have a suggestion to make."

Eyes darkening, Krycek merely nodded.

"I think you should go take a shower. While you're doing that, I'll set this room to rights. We'll eat something, say our goodbyes. Then we'll go home. How does that sound?"

Krycek closed his eyes, rubbed his head against the hand touching him. "Are..." His throat was closed: he cleared it, tried again. "Yes, Walter, I'd like that."

Scully watched as Lissa nodded a silent goodbye to Krycek who returned it. He had been very careful not to go near the little girl since he'd gotten up. Scully realized it was because of her.

She looked from her daughter to the man she had every reason to hate, to be grateful to. Sighed. Time, her mother would have said, to act like a grown-up.

She went up to him, stopping him from getting into the car. "Krycek."

He looked at her the way he always did, with eyes that seemed unemotionally assessing. Usually it made her skin crawl. Today she waited for the tingling and it didn't happen.

"I want to thank you again for what you did. For giving me back my daughter."

Krycek looked a little uncomfortable. He gave a slight nod. "You know she'll never be like the others. That she'll always be more..."

Scully smiled ruefully. "More Krycek?"

His eyes went cold again. "Yes."

Scully noticed that he had pulled his sweater over his shirt, catching the collar. She reached to release it. He stiffened, but allowed her to touch him. "Yes. Well, she has me." She finished smoothing the collar down, looked into his eyes. "And she has you. Between the two of us, she'll be fine."

And while he was still surprised she reached up and hugged him. He froze as did Lissa when she was taken unaware but, unlike Lissa, he didn't relax into the hug.

Hands still on his shoulders, she cocked her head. "No one, Alex, gets kicked out of this Scully tribe for loving you. Now," she stepped back, "go give my daughter a proper goodbye."

She watched the smile bloom on Lissa's face as Krycek neared her, her hand reaching out for him as he knelt on the top step so that they were eye to eye.

Skinner came round his side of the car and joined her.

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked him.

Skinner smiled at her. "Yes. I'm going to take him home and hold him until he accepts I'm not going to kick him out of my life because he was created in a test-tube. That he is important to me."

They watched Krycek take Lissa's hand as they walked toward them.

"You'll both come for Christmas," Scully announced.

"Are you sure?"

Scully smiled, accepted her daughter's hand from Krycek. "Yes. If it's anything like last year's circus, I'll need a couple of lion tamers. Won't we, Lissa?"

Lissa laughed.

Skinner had had enough.

It was time to do something.

No matter what he said, Krycek still didn't seem to believe him.

Ever since they had returned home, Krycek behaved as he had when he had first moved in. It was the same every day. He helped out in the bar, played pool with locals, did more than his fair share around the apartment. And every night, after they closed the bar, came upstairs, Krycek pushed Skinner against the wall and, by the time he allowed Skinner to move away from there, Skinner could barely concentrate enough to place one foot in front of the other on their way to the bedroom.

But worse than those days, Krycek was getting nothing at all from the act. He pushed Skinner's hands away, not letting himself be touched. After, he would pretend to be sleeping before Skinner had the breath to challenge what had just taken place.

But Skinner knew: Krycek didn't reach orgasm, didn't even get an erection.

It didn't take Skinner long to figure out that the night in the warehouse was behind Krycek's actions. But when he tried to talk about it, Krycek looked at him with that "nothing" expression that made Skinner want to hit him. Then he'd shrug, as if he didn't have the foggiest idea what Skinner was talking about, walk away.

After a week, Skinner knew they couldn't continue like this.

Scully called the bar again that evening, to reassure Skinner that all had returned to normal in the Scully circus, to let Lissa talk with Krycek. As usual, she told him about the newest book she was reading. As usual, he answered with one word, maybe two. Neither Skinner nor Scully doubted that there was more communication going on than what they were party to.

Krycek played pool with one of the old-timers, and then practised some of those fancy shots Skinner could never manage, even with two good arms. A couple of the local teenagers had begun showing up, watching Krycek's moves, trying them out when one of the other tables became free. Now and then, Krycek would look over, make a suggestion.

Skinner did some paper work, served a few late-comers, sent them home, closed up. Krycek gathered up empty bottles, glasses, mugs; Skinner washed them. Krycek placed the chairs on the tables while Skinner swept the floor.

Skinner turned off the lights, turned on the alarm system. He locked the door behind them.

He made certain that Krycek was ahead of him on the stairs going up that night by pretending that something had caught his attention.

Krycek opened the door, suddenly found himself against the wall, his body caught between it and Skinner's body, his mouth taken.

Skinner had never doubted Krycek's expertise, his greater experience in the choreography of sex. He had paid attention to the little tricks Krycek used on him to put his brain on hold. And he prided himself with being a quick learner.

He had more to work against than Krycek had with him. And, since that night in the warehouse, he now had a idea of just what it was he had to work his way through to get Krycek into the same befuddled state Krycek could so easily arouse in him.

It took longer, but when he finally pulled back, he was rather pleased with the effects of his assault.

Krycek's eyes were closed. His lower lip was already wetly swollen from Skinner's sucking, his love bites. There was a noticeable hickey developing where the throat joined the underjaw. His shirt was open, his t-shirt pushed up so that Skinner had had access to his nipples which were now hard, pushing against the soft material slowly working its way down now that no hand or mouth was keeping it up. His jeans were open, dangling on hips. A fine erect cock was nestled in the waistband of his shorts.

Skinner didn't give him any time to regroup. He captured the open mouth, filled it with his tongue. He kept that mouth where he wanted it with a hand firmly clasped to the back of Krycek's head. At the same time, he pulled the body to his, wrapped his arm around the other's waist, slowly shuffled them out of the kitchen, down the hallway and into their bedroom.

There, with first one hand, then the other, he managed to strip the clothing off Krycek's body and his own. Every time Krycek's hand came up, tried to involve itself, Skinner would capture it, firmly place it by Krycek's side and continued with whatever it was he was doing. The only time he pulled back was to remove Krycek's arm, place it safely out of the way.

He tipped Krycek back onto the bed, quickly hauled his boots off, dragging jeans and shorts off at the same time. Krycek barely had time to pull himself completely onto the bed when Skinner had removed his boots, jeans and joined Krycek.

"Wal..."

Skinner's mouth took Krycek's again, swallowing his name. This time when he pulled away, he grabbed Krycek's head between his hands and allowed him to breathe.

"Have I got your attention, Alex?" Skinner asked casually, throwing a hip over the other's to keep him from moving away.

Krycek blinked stupidly as if he had trouble understanding the question.

"Alex?" Skinner gently bit Krycek's chin. "Pay attention."

Krycek swallowed audibly. "Okay," he said, once he had caught his breath.

Skinner positioned his body on the other's so that his weight rested mainly on his elbows against the mattress but that Krycek wouldn't have an easy time if he tried to buck him off.

"I told you once, Alex, that you wouldn't be able to use sex to keep from talking. You've tried hard, but it's enough. We need to talk."

Damn, but he hated it when Alex got that blank look in his eyes. Even the colour seemed to fade.

"Let's handle this one thing at a time, Alex. The clone business first."

Krycek's head went back slightly. He paled.

"I do not care, Alex, that you are a clone. It means nothing to me. I know that...that *thing* you called Creator made a great deal out of it. Told you that it made you less than human. What was it you called yourself? Oh, yeah. An automaton."

Skinner released the tight grip he had on Krycek's head, started massaging the scalp by his fingertips.

"Bullshit, Alex. That's all it is. Bullshit."

Krycek's features began to form a denial, Skinner's mouth stopped it. "Bullshit," he spoke softly as he once more pulled back. "The only non-human in all this was that...*thing*."

He took a deep breath and continued. "As for your thinking that by the time it came to you, all humanity had been parcelled out to your *brothers*..." He stopped Krycek's protest before he could even gather the breath. "Brothers, Alex. You may all have been formed from the same cells, but you are brothers. I never want to hear the term 'co-clones' from you ever again. Do I make myself clear, Alex?"

Krycek frowned, opened his mouth then closed it. He nodded.

"Good. Now then, as I was saying. You did not get short-changed out of humanity because you were the last born. I will grant you that both you and Lissa have certain behaviours that may not be the norm, but that doesn't make either one of you less human."

He was pleased to see some wariness replace the blank expression in Krycek's eyes. Even their colour darkened.

"Now then, as to this...this so-called training you were subjected to as a child. There's a word for that. It's abuse. And even that may be too light a term for what was done to you." Krycek's eyes stopped holding Skinner's, found something to look at over his shoulder. "Alex. You were a child in the hands of a monster. Who treated you monstrously. Who tried hard to...to torture this humanity out of you that he told you you never had.

"He didn't succeed, did he? If he had, you would never have helped us, never have put your life on the line for Lissa."

Krycek's eyes found Skinner's once more.

"And while we're on the subject of humanity, there's another thing I want to clear up. You told Dana that you were the prototype while Lissa was the refined model. Alex, you are no more a prototype than Lissa is. Just as she is no more a refined model than you are. You are both people. And if you deny yourself that, then you deny it to her. Is that what you want?"

"No! But..." Krycek's discomfort with the discussion was obvious. He wriggled, trying to get out from under Skinner's body. Skinner dropped his weight down, confining him until Krycek grew still.

"No 'buts', Alex. If you're not human, neither is she. She's a clone like you are. She's a Fourth One like you are. What label you put on yourself, you put on her." Skinner knew from the expression on his face that Krcyek hadn't thought of that. And that he didn't like it.

"Alex, you know how you felt when that thing called you 'clone'. Do you want her to feel that way?"

"NO! No. She should ne...never know..." Krycek closed his eyes, but not before Skinner saw some of the pain he was hiding.

"You're right. She should never know what that feels like. And then again, neither should you. You know why you feel this way, Alex?" Skinner waited until Krycek gave a small shake of his head. "Because you love her. In spite of all that was done to you, to dehumanize you, to treat you like a thing, to turn you into a monster like they were, they didn't succeed. You are capable of love. And you are loved. By Lissa. By me."

Krycek opened his eyes again and Skinner knew the battle was not going to be that easily won. It would take time. Well, that was something they had. At least he knew Krycek wanted to believe that Skinner was right. For the first time, he saw an element of hope in Krycek's eyes.

He smiled down into the slightly worried face, bent and took possession of Krycek's mouth. "Another thing," he said as he played with it. "I thought we had agreed that fucking was for out of this bed. That in this bed, we made love. Did you think I'd forgotten that, Alex?"

Krycek shook his head. "No," his voice was thick with suppressed emotion. Skinner grinned at him: he fully intended to release all that emotion. To his benefit.

He slipped his leg between Krycek's, rubbed his thigh against the now softened cock. "Who am I, Alex?"

"Who?" Krycek blinked, confused as to where Skinner was going now.

"Yes. Who am I? What's my name?"

Krycek tilted his head to one side. It looked to Skinner that he was making a decision. "Walter."

Skinner smiled, nodded as if pleased with a student. "What am I, Alex? To you."

A frown line appeared over the bridge of Krycek's nose. Skinner bent and licked it. He pulled back up, shook his head at the expression on Krycek's face: it looked as though he needed some direction. "Am I your pal? Your friend? Your buddy? Maybe," his voice grew seductive, "your lover? What am I? Which do you want me to be?"

And he waited while Krycek found his courage.

"Please," Krycek finally whispered, "my lover."

And all the time Walter slowly caressed him, aroused him, he asked the same two questions over and over again. "Who am I, Alex? What am I?"

And all the while Alex's body made new memories of what it was like to be touched with kindness, with concern -- he was still too wary to think of it as love -- he answered, "Walter. My lover." Until he was aware only of the hands, the mouth, the body on his and the words became a litany that ran into each other. That ended in a scream of completion.

Walter kissed his sated lover, pulled him tightly into his embrace. He really should clean them both of the cum that decorated their bodies, but he didn't want to release his hold on Alex. So they would wake sticky in the morning, maybe even glued together, he thought with a dopey smile. Tonight, the holding was more important.

Alex, still dazed, snuggled close, his arm around the man who didn't think his being a clone was anything special. He rubbed his cheek against the other's throat, sighed. Decided to take a chance. "Walter," he whispered sleepily.

"Hmmmm."

"Who am I?"

Walter opened his eyes, smiled. "You're Alex."

"What am I?"

Walter tightened his hold. "My lover. You're my lover, Alex."

"Yes," said Alex, and went to sleep.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE FOURTH KIND: EPILOGUE

Dana Scully poured herself a second glass of red wine, went and sat in her favourite chair, settled her feet on the ottoman. Handel's "Messiah" was softly filling the room. She sighed, enjoying this rare moment of quiet in her home.

Her mother had come with the girls' Christmas gifts earlier in the day when they'd gone out for a drive with the Gunmen. Once, she had considered them to be more of a hindrance than help, but after the girls had been born, she had grown to respect them, to accept them, even to love them. She had no trouble readily admitting that without their help she would probably not have survived that first year.

And they took their roles as surrogate uncles very seriously, far more seriously than her brothers did. William rarely visited: he felt too uncomfortable in the presence of her clones. Charlie, well, Charlie was too often gone. Besides, he had a family of his own. He accepted the girls, but she often caught him, the few times he and his family did visit, looking at them as if he expected them to suddenly grow another head.

Her mother, on the other hand, was more than happy to spend time with her grand-daughters, delighting in pointing out to their mother the little quirks and foibles of her own behaviour as a child. What was it the nuns had once told her? What you do to your parents, your children will do to you.

Especially true when said children were you.

She took a sip of wine, listened for any noise that would force her to leave the comfort of her armchair. None.

Well, none that she need investigate. The back door opened and Walter came in with the last minute groceries she had sent him out to get for her. The girls ran through juice, milk faster than she could put it on the shelf. And since tomorrow was Christmas, she really did need extra supplies. Really, she did. Really.

She wondered, in passing, not actually worried, if Walter would see it that way.

He came into the living room, bringing with him the cold of the winter night.

"Brandy on the sideboard," she offered.

Walter grinned, poured himself a good portion. Warming the glass in his hands, he settled on the couch, slouching.

Walter, she decided, was looking far more relaxed, happier than she had ever seen him. She supposed Alex was in great part responsible for that. He raised his glass and saluted her. She smiled, raised hers in turn.

Walter took a sip, enjoying the warm fire the brandy lit in him. "Dana," he smiled at her, "where's Alex?"

The smile Dana sent him was far too innocent. He braced himself.

"In the upstairs bathroom. Giving the girls their bath."

Walter closed his eyes, rested his head back on the couch. "Dana. That's cruel. You know Alex has no experience with children and baths."

She shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "He'll learn. And it'll be good for him. Consider it a rite of initiation into the Scully tribe. Besides, he needs to develop a relationship with all the girls, not just Lissa."

There was a loud surprised squeal from the upstairs bathroom. Neither listener moved, waiting to hear what the follow-up would be.

Silence.

Walter took a larger sip of brandy. Watched as Dana settled more comfortably in her chair.

They both quietly sat with their drinks, listening for other sounds from above. He thought Dana was going to go investigate a loud "Oh, oh!" but she didn't. He decided that she was better at this than he was. He wondered how Alex was holding out.

It had taken Alex a lot of convincing that Walter wasn't repulsed by him. Lots of love-making in their bed. He still needed that. Walter hoped he would always need that.

And Lissa had shown him the way to treat those nightmares Alex had. He would hold him, repeating the words Alex had taught Lissa until he calmed, slipped into quiet sleep.

But Alex hadn't really been certain that his joining what Dana called her 'circus' at Christmas was a good idea. Dana must have realized: Lissa had been the one to issue the invitation to him. And, Walter knew, Alex would not refuse Lissa anything.

Still, he was wary around Dana. It was obvious that she, who had always been the one to be uncomfortable around him, got a kick out of the fact that Alex kept his eyes on her whenever they were in a room together. But his tension affected Lissa who had also become wary so Dana must have decided to put an end to the situation. Walter just wished she had chosen a different way.

There was the sound of a door opening, loudly hushed whispers, bare feet running to what Dana knew was the linen closet, a return to the bathroom and the door shutting loudly.

Still, Dana didn't move. She hummed the "Hallelujah" chorus along with the CD.

"Dana?"

"Hmmmm."

"Is your insurance up to date?"

"Don't worry, it includes flooding."

Walter put down his glass, rose. "If the ceiling in the den comes down, I'm the one who's going to be sleeping under it. I'm going up to check."

"Spoilsport." But Dana went up with him.

In typical mother fashion, she pushed open the bathroom door and managed to take all the occupants by surprise. Five faces turned around, all with the same guilty expression. Walter coughed to swallow his amazement at the sight that greeted them.

The bathroom was completely wet. Not just the floors, but the walls as well. The tub was still partially filled with suds. Sink, toilet were dripping onto the piles of towels that were sopping up the water on the floor.

Four little girls stood gleaming, slippery wet. Zanna still had shampoo in her hair. Domina had a glass in hand, filled with water, about to pour it over her hair. Unfortunately, Domina was the only one in the tub. Maggie wore a suds beard on her face. Lissa was standing next to Alex who was trying, one-handedly, to dry her off with one of the still relatively dry towels.

Dana had thoughtfully suggested he take off the prosthesis before giving the girls their bath.

Which proved to be a good idea as Alex was soaking wet.

"Well," Dana had that mother tone down pat. She crossed her arms, rested a shoulder against the door jamb. Four little girls suddenly looked very remorseful. Alex draped the towel around Lissa, got to his feet.

Walter hid his smile behind his hand. Alex's jeans fairly ran with water. A puddle quickly formed at his stocking feet.

"Walter," Dana spoke over her shoulder, "would you get a couple of *dry* towels from the linen closet, please."

"Look," said Alex, "this is my fault."

Dana merely responded to that with a raised eyebrow. She moved the look to her daughters. "Is it?"

For a moment there, she thought Domina was going to accept Alex's offer to be scapegoat. She held her daughter's eyes, watched as the idea of responsibility took hold. "No."

Zanna and Maggie sighed, muttered "No," in turn. Lissa, eyes very serious, put her arm around Alex's hip and shook her head.

"It was very good of Alex to try and take the blame for this, but we all know the bath-time rules, don't we, girls?" She accepted the towels that Walter handed her. She noticed that he'd kept a couple, dropping one onto the hallway floor. She smiled at him.

"Alex, why don't you step out into the hall and let Walter dry you off. I'll handle the situation here."

Lissa patted Alex's wet hip to get his attention. They exchanged looks -- Dana was convinced that her daughter was reassuring the ex-assassin -- and without saying a word to his fellow culprits, he left the bathroom. Dana closed the door behind him, giving him the privacy to strip off his sodden clothes without an audience.

"Girls," she rested her fists on her hips, "really. How much water did you pour over that poor man?"

She found him in the laundry area. He and Walter had wrung out the towels, dried the bathroom as best they could while she'd tucked the girls into bed, read them a story.

She slouched against the doorway watching him.

"Alex."

He looked up from moving the towels from the washer to the dryer.

"Next time..."

"Next time?"

Dana nodded. "Next time, only one capful of bubble bath, not the half bottle Zanna convinced you to use."

Alex rested a hip against the washer. "How did you know it was Zanna?"

"Because there are *never* enough bubbles for her. And don't let Maggie draw on the walls with them. And watch out for Domina: never let her play with a glass. Funny how water always ends up on the floor when she has a glass in her hand. And now that you know that Lissa loves splashing, you should be able to pull back before she gets you. Mind you, if you keep the water level down, it won't be so much of a problem."

"Scully, you knew this was going to happen."

She gave him her innocent smile. "Yes."

"Why..." Alex stopped.

"Why didn't I warn you? Frankly, Alex, because I thought you'd have fun. Are you going to tell me you didn't?"

She watched as Alex caught his lower lip between his teeth. He took a breath, sighed. "No."

"Good. And I did it so that it would be a lesson to you."

His eyebrow asked the question.

"Not to believe everything that comes out of their mouths. My daughters are a delight. But as a gang, well, you need to be prepared for anything from them. Now you know. And with any brains on your part, they shouldn't be able to manipulate you too much."

She turned to go when he said, "You do know I would never do anything to hurt them?"

Dana came up to him, looked him straight in the eyes. "Alex. I would trust you with their lives."

And caught her astonishment when his face slowly flushed. He looked, she thought, shy. She smiled, took advantage of this moment to kiss him on the cheek. He reddened even more but met her eyes. This time she laughed aloud, slipped her arm under his and drew him away from the machines.

"Brandy," she said. "Then you can tell us all about bath-time. I really would like to know how the ceiling got wet."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++NIF++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Author's Note:

I have a horrible time getting titles for my stories: I often depend on the kindness of my betas to find me one.

Ratlover came through with it this time. She wrote:

++++

Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind

No, it's not a take off on Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It's a classification of UFO/alien interactions with observers. According to http://www.maxpages.com/mapit/UFO_PHENOMENA they are defined as follows -

CE4-1 : Close encounter of the fourth kind : Catergory One.

These are events which are generally called abductions, but which more specifically crates severe reality distortion for the witness such as memory lapse, physiological effects, paralysis, time and space disorientation and post abduction trauma, such as inexpressible fear, anxiety and vexation.

CE4-2 : Close encounter of the fourth kind : Catergory Two.

These are events that use to be categorized as an abduction, however we believe that not all witnesses are taken forcefully against their will, thus not really being abducted. These types of experiences are those where a witnesses may voluntary assist or follow an entity to an awaiting craft of some sort, or those cases when witnesses claim to have communicated, (usually be forms of telepathy). These are those case that are simply forms of communication or interaction."

It's perfect! It has an oblique reference to the Fourth Ones, as well as Mulder's leaving with the Aliens, and Lissa's abduction (although by humans, not aliens).

++++

All I have to add to that is: thank the gods for betas with varying interests.

Josan

 

* * *

 

Title: AND THEN THERE WERE TWO  
Series: Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind  
Author: Josan, aided and abetted by Virgule Vaughan  
Betas: Skif and her virtual blue pencil. Karen-Leigh, who is to "blame" for these sequels by sending me all those Nick Lea tapes. I claim any inaccuracies...none of them -- and I'm sure there will be many -- are anyone else's fault.  
Date: November, 2000  
Summary: If you've read the first story and then you read the title of this one, you know what it's about.  
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: PG...  
Archive: Will be sent to RatB, but the rest of you who have asked can also take, if you want.  
Comments: OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try   
DISCLAIMER: Scully, the Lone Gunmen, Skinner and the original Krycek are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but all the others belong to me.   
DEDICATION: With thanks, to the people who voted for my stories in the WIRERIMS Awards. 

* * *

"Professor Tarquinn?"

The bespectacled man dressed in brown tweed paused in the act of unlocking his office door. "Yes?"

A large man entered the hallway from the secretary's office. The Professor took one quick look at him and thought, American. Not another one.

He sighed, opened the door and entered his office, turning on a light as he did so. He placed his briefcase on his desk, went and took his seat. Ever since he'd published that paper, "Chaos in Pure Mathematics", he'd received several calls from American universities who wanted him to pull up his roots, move across the sea and, of course, wanted all that to happen yesterday. They didn't seem to comprehend that he had no desire to move to America, that he was more than content with his position at the University of Leeds, that he had all that he wanted here in Yorkshire.

Unfortunately, they didn't seem to be able to take "no" for an answer. He looked at the big man dressed rather casually even for an American academic headhunter, in dark slacks, shirt, sweater topped with one of those well-worn leather bomber jackets. Mind you, there was no doubting the intelligence, nor the personality. He would have to be on his toes with this one.

His visitor remained standing just inside the door. Good manners forced him to stand in turn, looking around the small office for a chair that the man could sit on. He found that the larger of the two was the more piled with books. With a shrug, he cleared it off, carefully stacking the books on top of those in the other chair.

"Thank you," said the man, smiling at him, as if something had pleased him inordinately. No, not pleased. More amused. 

He took his place behind his desk and waited for the American to begin. Got another of those smiles.

"My name, " the American finally said, "is Walter Skinner. I doubt that means anything to you, Professor Tarquinn. I used to be Assistant Director with the FBI. I'm retired now."

Professor Tarquinn settled back in his chair. "Well, that's a different approach. I wonder, which of your universities would be using a retired member of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, with your rank, as their recruitment officer?"

Walter Skinner shook his head. "I don't represent any university. Are they after you?"

That sounded to the Professor as more of a question to put him at ease than real curiosity on the part of the American.

"I am, of late, discovering that you Americans don't like to hear the word 'no' when you expect to hear an enthusiastic 'yes'."

"Ah," said Skinner, also settling back into his chair. "That paper you wrote and presented in Munich. I understand that it's made ripples in many a Math Department. That it is, in fact, very controversial?"

Professor Tarquinn shrugged. "Have you read it?" 

Skinner chuckled. "No. Sorry, Professor. I can do the books for my business, but theoretical mathematics is not my strong point. No, a friend of mine read it. He was very impressed by the paper. And by your presentation. I understand that it was the first Internet conferencing Math symposium."

Tarquinn winced. "Not my idea. I believe that the problems with the transmission were caused by some satellite glitch." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk top. "Excuse me if I sound rude, Mr. Skinner, but I have a student coming for a tutorial and I need some time to prepare myself for it. What is it that you want with me?"

"Sorry. I'll get to the point." Skinner pulled the briefcase he had with him onto his lap and opened it. He looked at the Professor, as if making a decision, and then pulled out a folder. He closed the briefcase and placed it back on the floor by his chair.

"I'd like your opinion on this." From the folder, he handed the Professor a transparency with some blurs on it.

The Professor held it in his hand, frowned. "I am a mathematician, Mr. Skinner, not a biologist."

"True. But you're scientist enough to know what that is."

Professor Tarquinn held the transparency up to the light, squinted. "I might be able to say that this seems to be someone's DNA profile."

"Yes." Skinner smiled at him as he did when a student picked up a particular tricky concept. "It belongs to a man named Alex Krycek."

The AK on the label, noted the Professor. "Yes, well, you'll have to forgive me but I don't understand just why this Mr. Krycek's DNA should interest me?"

Skinner handed him another of the transparencies. The Professor put down the one he had in his hand, accepted the second. He held it up in turn. "Yes, well, at first glance I say again Mr. Krycek." He handed it back. Skinner didn't take it back.

"That's not Alex Krycek's DNA, Professor. That's yours."

The Professor grew very still for a moment. He glanced at the notation on the label: ST. He picked up the first transparency, placed it on top of the second, held them up to the light. They matched perfectly.

The Professor laughed. "All right, Mr. Skinner. Good joke. Now then..."

But Skinner interrupted him. "No joke, Professor." The expression on his face certainly supported that.

The Professor held up the two transparencies to the light again. "This is impossible. There can be similar DNA profiles, but these two are identical."

"Not impossible, I assure you, Professor. Uncommon, but not impossible."

"But...Only identical twins are thought to have identical DNA profiles. This is some sort of mistake at best. At worst, a trick. For this to be true, I would have to be..."

"To be?" encouraged Skinner.

Professor Tarquinn looked at the man sitting so calmly in his office. "To be," his voice monotone, "an identical twin." He cleared his throat with a soft cough, allowed some of his scepticism show in his voice. "Believe me, Mr. Skinner, if I had been one of twins, my mother would certainly have known." 

He lifted the transparencies off the desk to hand them back but they slipped out of his hands, dropped onto the floor.

"Oh!" The Professor bent to pick them up, came up with a revolver in his hand. Which he pointed in a very steady hand at the man seated in front of him.

And got a reaction unlike any that he could have imagined.

Skinner laughed, kept on laughing though it was obvious he was trying very hard to get the laughter under control.

"Oh, my. I'm sorry, Professor." He raised his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "The switch from ivory-towered academic to killer was just a bit too much. I mean, you look exactly like Alex...apart from the superficial external differences...but I really didn't think you had much of him in you. Until that thing with the gun."

"I'm so very pleased that you're getting such enjoyment out of this, Mr. Skinner. Permit me to inform you that I don't see the situation in the same light."

"Well, you even sound like him there. In spite of the British accent." The hand on the handle tightened and Skinner stopped grinning. "Please, Professor. If you will allow me to explain? I don't think we need the gun."

"On the contrary, Mr. Skinner, I think we do." Professor Tarquinn reached for the telephone on his desk.

"I *can* explain," Skinner spoke convincingly.

"I'm certain that you think you can. Miss Beasley, would you be so kind as to cancel my tutorial with young Maugham. I shall be meeting with my American visitor for some time. No, no need to bother the Dean. He's not a headhunter. No, we shan't be needing tea. It's not that kind of meeting. Thank you, Miss Beasley."

He sat back in his chair, gun still pointing at the chest of his visitor. "I believe you said you have an explanation."

And Professor Sebastian Tarquinn, holder of the Chair in Pure Mathematics at the University of Leeds, holder of two doctorates, one in Theoretical Mathematics and the other in Philosophy, listened as his American visitor, Walter Skinner, told him a story about a man who some forty years ago cloned himself into four. 

                              ++++

In the two years since he had learnt the truth about Alex Krycek's origins, Walter Skinner had had to make several changes in his life.

The first was the realization that Dana Scully and her Circus, as she called her family, composed of her four cloned daughters and their three surrogate uncles, the Lone Gunmen, would be more involved in their life, his and Alex's. That meant that they needed more room than what they had above the bar Skinner owned in Newport.

And also, though they were close, and becoming closer all the time, both he and Alex were independent men who were used to having space around them. They loved each other but, now and then, Alex, like Lissa, needed a place just to himself, away from everything and everyone. And that wasn't possible in the apartment.

So, after that first Christmas, Walter set about looking for a property to buy. Finally found one that satisfied his particular requirements. It was near town, on Lake Menphremagog, with a waterfront that, with some work, would be suitable for four little girls to go swimming.

The house had been built in the twenties by some wood baron as a hunting "cabin". It was two stories high, with a huge, screened-in wrap-around porch, large rooms. The living room had a good-sized fireplace; the kitchen, a wood stove.

The price was pretty fair, considering the amount of property and the repairs the place needed. Alex hadn't been too certain until he'd seen the master bedroom, with its own balcony overlooking the lake. And the fireplace.

They haggled over who was going to pay what. Nearly had their first fight. Alex, it seemed, had money he'd hidden in accounts all over the world. Walter wasn't certain he wanted to know the source but realized Alex needed to contribute his share to make this his home more than Walter's conscience needed to feel righteous.

And then Walter had been contacted by an old friend who now taught at Tufts University in Boston, asking if he'd be interested in dropping by occasionally to lecture on a point or two in their Law Department. Charlie Fables was one of the few people who knew the real reasons for Walter's "retirement" from the FBI. Who neither cared about, nor disbelieved Walter's version of the abduction, but who knew that enough time had passed so that Walter's acceptance to do the occasional lecture would not raise eyebrows.

So Walter went to Boston once a month -- he and Charlie had differing ideas as to the meaning of "occasional" -- while Alex took over the day-to-day running of the bar.

Their second Christmas was spent in their new home with Dana's Circus in attendance. 

Without a second thought, Dana dumped the responsibility for the girls onto Alex's lap, sat back and enjoyed herself. Now five and starting school, the girls were thrilled with the amount of snow, outdoor games and were more than Alex could handle by himself. Walter and the Gunmen sometimes took pity on him and would come to his rescue.

Walter grew to expect finding his lover in bed, sound asleep, almost every night of the week the Circus spent with them.

While they were there, unknown to Alex, Walter had asked the Gunmen to do their best to find Alex's brothers. The documentation on them in the Consortium data banks was fairly sketchy. After they had turned three, the data concentrated on Alex and his reactions, his responses to the experimentation that was done on him. Not that they referred to Alex by name. In the documentation the code used was Clone 4. And it was not easy reading.

The others, one by one, had disappeared from the references. Over a twelve month period, they had all been placed in homes of people who worked for the Consortium, but, one by one, these people too disappeared.

The Gunmen were enthralled by the challenge. And they had come through.

Langley had been monitoring the Internet, enjoying the comical aspects of static filled, stop/go video transmission when he'd come across the one out of Munich, just as a certain Professor Sebastian Tarquinn was presenting his paper.

Within a week, Walter had a package in his hand, all about the good professor.

Except that there seemed to have been a lapse of some kind. There was nothing in the background he'd been given to explain the steady hand holding the gun pointed at his chest, the cool assessment of those cat-green eyes behind the nerdy glasses.

"So there are four of us," said Professor Tarquinn, in a calm voice, as if he were making a comment in one of his lectures.

"Yes. If I may?" Skinner pointed to the briefcase at his feet.

"On the desk, where I can see it."

Skinner carefully placed the briefcase, opened it so that the armed man could see the inside. Equally carefully he took out another folder, placed it in front of the Professor and flipped it open to the photo.

"Alex Krycek."

Tarquinn glanced down. Grew very still again. Skinner didn't underestimate the man. He knew that the stillness would vanish in an instant if he moved in any way.

Sebastian Tarquinn looked at the face of the man called Alex Krycek; who, apart from the hair shorter than his own, the lack of glasses, had the same face he saw in his mirror every morning when he shaved.

He set the gun down, picked up the documentation in the folder and read.

Skinner had purposefully kept the data on Alex as ambiguous as he could while still giving enough background on the man for the reader to know something about him.

Tarquinn read through without making a comment. Skinner found that he could no more figure out the man's reaction to the information than he could Alex's when he wore a similar expression on his face.

When Tarquinn reached the final page, he replaced the papers in the folder, Alex's picture on top. "This man is an assassin."

"Was," agreed Skinner.

"What do you want of me?" Tarquinn's hand was not far from the gun.

"I would like you to think about meeting him."

"Meet an assassin? Why would I want to do that, Mr. Skinner?"

"Because he's your brother."

Tarquinn's eyebrows were more expressive than Alex's. "Now it makes me wonder just what an Assistant Director of the FBI..."

"Retired," interrupted Skinner.

"Retired or otherwise...what you have to do with a man who...*was*...an assassin?"

To Tarquinn's surprise, Skinner's face softened. "Alex and I are lovers."

Not, thought Skinner, what the good professor was expecting. He took advantage of the man's astonishment to sit back in his chair.

With Alex's eyes staring at him, Skinner fleshed out some of the information that Tarquinn had read in the file. Provided more about Alex's early training, about his stint with the Consortium. Tarquinn's mouth tightened, his lips thinning in what Skinner could interpret as disapproval. 

Other than a twitch of that mouth, a slight lift of an eyebrow, Tarquinn barely reacted to the part about Alex's encounters with the Olians and the Rebels.

So Skinner told him, without mentioning names, about Lissa and what had nearly happened to her.

Throughout it all, Tarquinn listened, not interrupting him once. When he was done, Skinner waited.

"Does this Krycek know about me?" Tarquinn picked up the gun, examined it as though seeing it for the first time.

"No."

The green eyes left the gun to examine Skinner's face. "Why not?"

"Alex has had enough pain in his life. Enough rejection because of what he was made out to be."

"Which was?" Tarquinn's interruption was sharp.

"A clone. Yes," Skinner raised his hand, forestalling Tarquinn, "genetically, you are clones. But you are also human beings. Alex was trained to think of himself as a thing. A scientific experiment. Non-human. He's finally come to accept that what he was told was wrong. That, though his responses as a child had a lot to do with his being a Fourth One and still do, he is as much a human being as any person.

"Look, Professor Tarquinn, I know this is a surprise. And I know that you need time to think about this."

"No." Tarquinn spoke with quiet conviction. 

Skinner looked at him. "No? No, what, Professor?"

"No, it is not a surprise. Not a complete surprise. I knew there was something about me that was different, just not what it was. My mother and I left her husband when I was seven. We were spirited away into the American government's witness protection program when she gave testimony against him. I never knew what the matter was, only that it was classified as secret. We came to England because she was British. The Americans worked out some deal with MI5 so that we were given new identities but that she could continue with her work in Physics. She taught at a small Public School with ties to Leeds. When I was nine, she married Godfrey Tarquinn who taught Literature and Philosophy in the same School. He adopted me.

"But," Tarquinn waved a hand negligently, "I'm certain none of this is new to you." He paused then continued. "Before they married, I overheard them talking one night. About me. Not much, but just enough for me to understand that someone might come looking for me one day because of this difference."

Tarquinn placed the gun in the top, side drawer. "My mother preferred me to fade into the woodwork. My father had been with Military Intelligence. He taught me to use a revolver, to defend myself. Just in case someone would ever decide to come for me.

"As to the second no. No. I do not need time to think about this. I want nothing to do with this man, whoever, whatever he is. And I must ask you never to mention me, my existence, to him. Yes, you are right. He has been hurt enough. I don't want to add to that."

Tarquinn stood up in what was obviously a sign of dismissal. 

Skinner gathered the files, put them back into his briefcase.

He had to try again, if only for Alex's sake. "He's worth knowing, you know."

"I'm sure he is. I would just rather not. I hope you will respect my wishes in this."

Skinner felt an overwhelming urge to shake the man and then sighed. Alex needed a brother who actually wanted to meet him. And this man didn't. He nodded, reluctantly.

He was at the door, hand on the knob when Tarquinn spoke, hesitantly. "There is one thing I would like to know."

Skinner looked at him over his shoulder.

"Does he have something wrong with an arm?" He gestured awkwardly to his left arm.

The documentation in the file had nothing about the loss of Alex's arm. Skinner cocked an eyebrow. "Why do you want to know?"

"About ten years ago?"

"Again, why do you want to know, Professor Tarquinn?"

Tarquinn bit his lower lip the same way Alex did when he was making a decision. He looked up at him, and Skinner saw the confusion in the man's eyes. "I...I had dreams around that time. About my arm. About losing it. Did he lose it in a fire?"

"In a way. They cut it off with a white-hot knife. Good day, Professor. I won't be bothering you again."

And had the pleasure of closing the door upon a stunned Sebastian Tarquinn.

                              ++++

"I still find it hard to drive on the left side of the road," Walter muttered as they came through the door of the hotel suite in York.

"I can't get over how small the cars are." Alex stretched, his t-shirt riding out of his jeans. He gave a last twist, removed his jacket and tossed it onto the armchair that sat in front of a window. "Beautiful country. Strange to think that houses here are hundreds of years old. Back home our place is considered to be one of the historical ones."

Walter picked up Alex's jacket on the way to the bedroom and hung it up in the closet besides his own. They'd spent the day touring the country between Leeds and York, after he'd finished his business with "the pal of Charlie's" he'd arranged to meet at the University while Alex had checked out the main part of town.

They'd had lunch in Leeds, driven around until the sun started setting and, right now, all Walter wanted was a chance to forget that this morning's meeting hadn't produced the results he had wanted for Alex.

The trip to England was, Walter had convinced Alex, something he had always wanted to do. May was slack time at the bar. Tufts didn't need him again until September. He had been to London, he'd told Alex, but he wanted to see more of the North. Why not go for a couple of weeks?

Alex had thought about the money he had secreted away in a London bank, agreed on the condition that they'd land in London and have a couple of nights there. He quickly emptied the safety deposit box of its contents, hidden most of it in the false bottom of his knapsack and contentedly left the sights of London for the beauties of Northern England.

They were scheduled to spent one more night in York before leaving for Scotland.

Alex sprawled on the couch while Walter stretched out with his feet on the ottoman by the armchair, reviewing the things they'd seen, making lazy conversation.

The unexpected knock on the door took them both by surprise. Alex sat up, his hand going for the back of his belt and the small gun holstered there. One of those things he had gotten out of the box at the bank.

Walter signalled him to stay seated and went to answer the knock. 

"Yes?"

"Message for Mr. Skinner."

Walter cracked the door, opened his mouth to ask for the message. 

Nothing came out.

"Please," said the man at the door, "may I come in?"

Walter looked him over as though expecting him to pull out some weapon at any moment. "If you hurt him..." he whispered.

The man nodded, accepting the threat as the promise it was.

Walter opened the door wide and Sebastian Tarquinn entered the room.

Walter leaned against the door and watched as Alex finally understood who this man was.

Neither of them moved. Nor spoke.

They just stared at each other.

Alex saw a man the same height as himself, though thinner and less muscular. His skin was pale but the hair colour was the same. The hair was longer, swept back off the face, cut to collar length. He had the same mouth, the same nose, the same slight elf-shape to the ears that Alex saw ever day in the mirror.

He realized that he was being watched through dark rimmed glasses with eyes the same green as his, the same shape. With the same intensity.

He knew what the other was seeing. Himself dressed in jeans, navy long sleeved t-shirt. Hair parted to one side, the bangs drooping over his forehead -- Walter liked his hair this way, the same it had been when he had been an agent for the FBI. 

He also knew that the other had to be aware of the gun pointed at him, but wasn't paying it any attention.

"Alex. Alex!"

Without taking his eyes off the man who looked like him, Alex nodded to show he had heard his lover.

"Put the gun away. Then I'll introduce you two."

Alex didn't move. Walter was going to speak again when the gun was hesitantly returned to its holster.

Alex's hand dropped to his side as Walter came to stand between the two men, but closer to Alex. "Alex Krycek, Sebastian Tarquinn."

And waited for something to happen. 

And waited.

Walter frowned. What now? He had expected to see nothing more of the Professor after the end of this morning's meeting. He had fully accepted the Professor's refusal to even consider meeting Alex. 

Yet, here he was. 

One look at Alex and Walter knew his walls were up thick and strong. Mind you, Tarquinn wore a similar expression so his walls, whatever they were, must also be up and in place. 

Walter sighed. This meeting was in no way proceeding in any manner he had allowed himself to imagine. But he took a step back and decided to leave the rest of this to the two men who were barely breathing.

"You really do look like me." Tarquinn finally broke the silence that had held the two men.

"Yeah." Alex replied in the same soft tone. Apart from the Britishness of Tarquinn's accent, they sounded much alike. "You, too."

Walter pressed his lips together to keep from interfering. This was between the two of them, he reminded himself. Yeah, *right*. Who'd started all this? he chastised himself. 

"I didn't believe it. When your Mr. Skinner showed me the picture..."

"*My* Mr. Skinner?" Alex spared a glance for his lover who glared at Tarquinn.

"Yes, this morning at the University. I hold the Chair of Pure Mathematics there. Yes, I know, you didn't know. I asked him not to tell you."

Alex's defences went up stronger than before. "I see." His raised his chin in that way he had when he expected to be hit and could only accept. 

Walter felt his stomach clench. 

"No," Tarquinn shook his head. "You don't see. I know you think it has something to do with you. It doesn't. It has something to do with me."

Alex's smile was cold and not pretty. "Yeah. Sure. That's what people say when they break up. 'Nothing to do with you, it's all me.'"

"It has to do with the dreams," Tarquinn ploughed on.

"The dreams?" Alex's chin dropped just the slightest.

Good, thought Walter. At least he was listening. And what the hell did Tarquinn's dreams have to do with this?

"I know about your arm because of the dreams."

Alex's right hand went to cover the place where his stump and prosthesis met. As if to protect.

"About ten years ago, wasn't it? Mr. Skinner said it was a knife. A white-hot knife?"

Alex winced. Nodded his head.

Tarquinn also nodded his head. "In my dreams it was fire. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. But I needed to know."

Tarquinn turned for the door. Walter saw the look in Alex's eyes before he covered it with that blank expression Walter so hated: longing quickly stifled.

In his mind, Walter began cursing Tarquinn with every foul oath he could think of.

Tarquinn took a couple of steps then stopped, turned and, as if moving before he could stop himself, he came to stand before Alex. Within arm's reach. This time, he didn't bother hiding the pain, the hunger on his own face. He raised his hands, as if to touch Alex. Stopped himself.

"I..." He coughed to clear his throat. "I had other dreams. As a child. Of darkness. And pain. And incredible fear."

Walter watched as a crack appeared in Alex's defences.

"That was you, wasn't it. What they did to you. The documents Mr. Skinner showed me only said that they had kept you, that they had performed certain experiments on you. Because you were different. They did that to you because you weren't like us. They didn't bother with us. They bothered with you. They hurt you. They hurt you badly. I felt that in my dreams."

Again, Tarquinn's hands came up and again he forced himself not to touch the man in front of him.

"Alex. The worst thing that I can remember being done to me was when I was eleven and my father made me apologize to Piggy Fitzroy for bloodying his nose." Tarquinn's voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you understand?" he begged.

Walter bit his lips as the mask slipped off Alex's face. 

Alex nodded. It took a couple of tries before he found his voice. "Piggy Fitzroy," he said, voice rough.

Tarquinn nodded.

"Did...did he deserve getting his nose bloodied?"

Tarquinn smiled, not a particularly strong smile; it wobbled a bit. "Yes. He was a bully. Liked going around pinching the smaller boys."

"Did you enjoy doing it?" Alex tried hard to keep his voice even.

Tarquinn nodded. "Yes." 

"And that was the worst thing that happened to you?"

Tarquinn had lots of trouble getting out this "Yes."

Alex nodded.

Jesus, thought Walter, will one of you do something?

Tarquinn brought up his hand again, nearly made it to Alex's face. He left it hovering there. "They hurt you so much."

Alex swayed a little, almost into the hand his brother held by his face. "You can't be sure that the dreams were of me," he offered. "They had you for three, four years before they let you go. Those dreams could have been what they did to you."

Even though Walter had his eyes on them, he never knew who moved first. One moment the two men were devouring each other with hungry eyes, the next they were in each other's arms, silent, holding tight as for dear life.

Walter closed his eyes and whispered, "Thank you, God."

Tactfully, Walter left them alone. From the bedroom, he could hear them talking, awkwardly. Once he was certain he could leave them alone, he put his jacket on. "I'll go find something for supper," he said on his way out. The two of them were sitting on the couch, one at each end. Alex smiled at him.

He discovered a market area where he could have sandwiches made, placed an order and was told they'd be ready in an hour. He walked around, found a store selling wine, spirits; he picked up a couple of bottles of red and a small bottle of brandy. He found some good coffee that he could use in the coffee maker that came with the suite. He bought Ian Rankin's latest mystery and picked up the sandwiches.

Back at the hotel, he found the professor in his shirt sleeves, shoes off, sitting cross-legged on the couch, with Alex in the same position at his end. Walter placed the sandwiches on the low table by the couch. opened the wine, poured them each a glass.

Sebastian -- no longer Tarquinn in Walter's mind -- was telling Alex about a trip he'd taken into northern Scotland to go fly-fishing. 

"Walter does that, too," Alex grinned.

Sebastian smiled at Walter, but Walter knew he wasn't really part of this conversation. He stayed long enough to finish his sandwich, refilled his glass with wine and, book in hand, took himself off to the bedroom. He left the door partially open, not to listen in, but in case something went wrong with the meeting and he was needed. 

Once in a while something one of them was saying would catch his attention, such as Alex explaining the methodology how he used to decrypt the DAT tape. His answers to Sebastian's questions revealed that Sebastian was not the only mathematician in the room. 

Or how Alex had felt when the Oilian had been in him, feelings that somehow Sebastian had shared, if only remotely in his dreams.

When Walter stuck his head out to say goodnight -- it was after one in the morning -- they were sitting on the floor, face to face, legs stretched out over the other's hips.

Walter was alone in the bed when he woke up the next morning. He lay still, listening for the sound of the voices that had been in the background all the time he slept. He got up, used the bathroom, brushed his teeth. Wearing only the sweat pants he slept in, Walter went into the other room to find Alex in Sebastian's arms, back to chest, sound asleep on the couch. Alex's prosthesis lay on the table, next to Sebastian's glasses.

Walter sat in the armchair and looked at the picture his lover and his brother made. Sebastian's chin rested on the top of Alex's head, his arms loosely wrapped around Alex, Alex's arm relaxed, lying on top of the other's.

Walter wondered if he should feel jealous of the peace on Alex's face.

As if he sensed Walter's thoughts, Alex's eyes opened. He and Walter looked at each other for a few moments, both hiding their feelings. With a glance over his shoulder, Alex slipped out of Sebastian's arms, allowed his body to slide to the floor. There, face serious, he made his way on hand and knees in that feline way of his. He stopped by Walter's knees, sat back on his haunches, rested his head on Walter's thigh.

Without looking at him, Walter knew Sebastian was watching. He reached down and caressed Alex's face.

"Walter." Alex's voice was thick with sleep, rough from all the talking he had done since he and Sebastian had touched each other.

"Yes, Alex."

Alex propped his chin up on Walter's thigh. He smiled. "Thank you."

Walter smoothed back the hair from Alex's face. Alex turned into his touch, sighed.

"What are you thanking me for, love?"

Alex looked over his shoulder at Sebastian and smiled. He turned that smile back on his lover, deepened it to show his love.

"For giving me my brother."

Sebastian got up, came to kneel at Walter other's side. "Yes. Thank you, Walter."

Walter smiled at the two faces looking up at him. Identical but not the same. 

"Would you like another?" he asked.

                              ++++

"Would you like another?" Walter had asked.

But that was all he would tell them. He asked them to be patient, said that there were a couple of hurdles left to overcome but that, as soon as he could, he would inform them of their brother's name and his whereabouts. 

Sebastian wasn't too pleased, but he accepted. Especially when he saw the time. "Damn! I have a lecture to give in an hour." He dressed, took a hesitant leave of Alex, "You two *are* staying?"

"Yes," said Walter, "we are staying. Shall we meet for supper?"

Sebastian grinned Alex's grin, shrugged into his jacket. "Dinner, I think you mean. Shall we say my place? Around seven? I'm certain that you," he addressed Walter, "have the address in that briefcase of yours." With a tentative hug for Alex and a nod for Walter, he rushed out.

"I wonder," Alex came to sit on Walter's lap, dropped his hand onto Walter's shoulder, began a gentle massage of the muscles that joined with the neck, "what other bits of information you have in 'that briefcase of yours'?"

Walter grinned. Alex already did a good imitation of Sebastian's accent. "You can go through the file I have on him. Though, I doubt, that after last night, you'll find anything new."

Alex shrugged. 

Yes, Alex thought as he showered, he and Sebastian had shared a great deal of information about themselves. Maybe too much. 

Walter noted as the day went on that Alex seemed distracted. He had taken Alex to the University, so they could walk around Sebastian's world.

"You want to tell me what's wrong, Alex?" They were back at the hotel. Alex had tossed his jacket to the chair, missed it completely, ignoring its falling to the floor. Not usual treatment for the jacket that Walter often thought was part of Alex's defences against the world. He stooped, picked it up. Alex was sitting on the edge of the couch, slightly hunched over, eyes on his hands, the real one fidgeting with the fake.

"Alex?"

Alex sighed, looked up, worried. "Last night with Sebastian, I talked a lot."

Walter waited for him to continue. Then pushed a little. "Yes, you did."

"Maybe too much."

"Too much? How too much?" Walter tossed his and Alex's jackets onto the armchair, went to sit next to his lover.

Alex gnawed on his lower lip. He took a deep breath, looked at Walter. "Too much about some of the things I've done."

Walter's nod was questioning.

"About...things."

"I see. And now that you've had time to think about it, you're worried that you might have put yourself into jeopardy. That maybe Sebastian is going to go to the authorities, that he's going to turn you in for having been an assassin?"

Alex shrugged, concentrated on rubbing his thumb against a small spot on his fake hand.

"That he might decide that knowing one Alex Krycek might not be a good thing for his career?"

Alex's left shoulder twitched in answer.

"That he might not like the fact that there is someone around to remind him that he too is a clone, and that he might hate the man that made him aware of that?"

Alex took his time before nodding. Walter moved his hand to the back of Alex's neck, worked to smooth the hard tension he found there.

"Alex. What makes you think that Sebastian isn't feeling the same way about you right now?" 

Alex's hand stopped its repetitious rubbing. 

"That he too isn't regretting the things he's told you in the first rush of pleasure at finding a brother? I mean, it's not like he was a choirboy. He's told you more than a few things that he may not want to become common knowledge. I know that the British are more open about certain kinds of relationships than we are. But the fact that he's bisexual may not be something that everyone who works with him knows."

Alex sat up. "It's not like he screws around. He's had two long-term relationships. One with a woman, one with a man. He's alone right now, but he's not cruising the bars looking for his next bed-mate."

Walter raised a eyebrow at Alex's immediate defence of Sebastian's lifestyle. It warmed him that after so little time, Alex seemed to have formed a bond with his brother. He decided to push a little more. 

"Then there's the thing with the gun. This is England. They have strict gun laws in this country. *You* know what the consequences would be if someone caught that thing you carry on your belt. What do you think they would be for Sebastian if someone reported he kept a loaded revolver in his office? In his home?"

"He's only doing it for his own security. His father showed him how to use guns, how to defend himself in case anyone from the Consortium ever showed up. I mean, hell!" Alex stood up, turned to glare at Walter. "It's not like he's going around taking pot shots at anything that moves! Why are you smiling like that?"

Walter slouched back in the corner of the couch, smiling growing into grin. "Do you hear yourself, Alex?" With a wider grin, he reached up, pulled Alex down next to him. Alex rested the back of his head against the top of the couch and sighed. 

"It's going to be all right, Alex. We'll go have *dinner* with your brother. You two will probably pussyfoot your way around all sorts of topics you both wish you hadn't broached last night. You'll learn a bit more about each other. You'll decide if you both want to further this acquaintance. Whether you want to go from knowing the other is alive, to wanting more contact.

"Alex, we're in no rush to go home. That's why the tickets I bought are open ended. There's no great time limit on our staying here. 'Bout the only thing on my schedule is that I'd like to try a little fishing in Scotland, but even that is not a priority. Right now, you're the priority, Alex. You and Sebastian."

"Is that why you won't tell us anything about this other...brother you've found?" Alex let his head rest against Walter's shoulder. Walter pulled him closer, wrapped a comforting arm around him.

"One thing at a time, Alex. Take a few days, spend as much or as little of them as you care to with this brother. Really see if there's anything there. For both of you. He also needs to make a few decisions about you."

Alex got that stillness that Walter so disliked, as though he were bracing himself. He jumped in before Alex had time to say anything. "You know how upset he was at the differences in your backgrounds. You know, if you'll admit it to yourself, that he feels guilty that his was so much smoother than your own." Less abusive, thought Walter.

"Piggy Fitzroy," said Alex.

"Yes."

"And he's had those dreams." Alex made himself comfortable against Walter's chest, head resting on the far shoulder of the man who was supporting him in so many ways. "You know," his tone turned thoughtful, "I thought I only had a connection with other Fourth Ones. Do you think he really can feel some of what I feel?"

Walter's eyebrow raised again as he contemplated the euphemisms they were using. "Why not? I mean we hear all the time about identical twins who know when the other is in trouble, in pain. Why shouldn't Sebastian have some sort of link with you?"

There was a long pause as Alex thought about that. "Because, " he finally said, almost whispering, "I don't want him to know about those times."

Not knowing what to say, Walter kissed the head on his shoulder.

                              ++++

Dinner was strained.

As Walter had told Alex, Sebastian too felt the nervous embarrassment of having said more than he was comfortable with when he had had time to think about it. He wasn't ashamed of anything he had done, just wary of having spilt so much of himself to someone he had just met.

Walter watched the way the men avoid meeting each other's eyes over the meal, addressing their comments to him, speaking over each other's shoulders.

They were sitting down to coffee and brandy when Walter decided to put them out of their misery. "Gentlemen," he held up his brandy snifter to make a toast. He waited until the two had followed his example. "To the biggest pains in the ass, to the best and the worst parts of one's self. To brothers."

While Walter sipped his brandy, the two others stared at the glasses in their hands. It was then that Walter realized how alike they were, more than just physically, even though they had just met. The way they held their heads, the way they positioned their bodies. The way the slow smiles grew on their faces.

Sebastian pushed his glasses up his nose with a fingertip, cocked his head. He raised his glass towards Alex. "To brothers."

Alex's head moved to the same degree. "To brothers," he agreed.

                              ++++

Sebastian hadn't been joking about fly-fishing. A couple of phone calls and he had made arrangements of the three of them to stay at a friend's cottage in Scotland for the weekend.

The water was icy cold, even with waders on. Alex refused to join them, preferring to sit on the bank, watching Walter and Sebastian up to their hips in snow-melt water, freezing their balls off as he was not reluctant to inform them 

Neither Sebastian or Walter seemed to be minding that fact. They were both hugely enjoying themselves. They gestured instructions back and forth over the quiet sound of the water, pointedly ignoring Alex who called out comments to them, thereby committing a major mortal sin in the catechism of any serious fisherman.

Alex laughed at them. He was nice and dry, he reminded them --often -- better yet, *warm*, in his spot under a tree. *His* balls weren't shrivelling up, turning blue. Wouldn't, he tossed out at Walter, be useless.

He really shouldn't have been so surprised when his lover and his brother ganged up on him and together managed to drag him, laughing and then yowling, into the water.

"So now," smirked Sebastian, "we're back to being identical, even to the state of our balls."

"Not fair," groused Alex, staggering out of the water.

"Perfectly fair," countered Sebastian. "I understand that's what younger brothers are for, ganging up on them and making their life miserable. You have brothers, Walter. Am I not right?" Sebastian turned a beautifully innocent look on Alex.

"Absolutely," smiled Walter.

"Fuck you," snarled Alex.

                              ++++

They moved out of the hotel and in with Sebastian. He owned a small grey stone townhouse about a mile from the campus, that had been built in the 1830's. He biked to and from the University, biked everywhere in town, the only exercise he admitted taking. He watched in fascination as Alex went through what he called his morning exercises, a self-invented combination of Tai Chi moves mixed in with judo, karate to keep him limber. He signed Walter up at the University fitness centre so he could work out on the machines there.

They'd stayed with Sebastian for about five days when Alex had the nightmare.

It began the usual way, with his twitching and making spasmodic movements. Walter, subliminally aware of these after two years of sharing a bed with Alex, woke. He had learnt not to rouse Alex, but to take his time and talk him out of the claws that gripped him in his sleep. 

Carefully, he took the now shuddering, softly moaning man into his arms, held him close, quietly reciting the rhyme that Alex had taught Lissa to chase the nightmares away.

A noise caught his attention. Sebastian had pushed open the door. Eyes stark in a whitened face, he hung onto the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping him up. The green silk pyjamas he wore were darkly stained with sweat. "Please," his raw whisper was forced out of a clenched throat, "wake him up. Get him out of there."

Walter nodded, kept up the rhyme. Sebastian stared at Alex, his breathing roughened until it was in sync with his brother's. Walter noted what was happening, but concentrated on Alex. Gradually, far too slowly for Sebastian, Alex worked his way out of the dream. His voice joined in with Walter's, repeating fragments of the rhyme until finally he was saying it along with him.

"Walter?" 

"Yes, love."

"'Sokay."

"I know." Walter kept repeating the rhyme, eyes now on Sebastian, as Alex slipped back into sleep. He held up a hand, showing five fingers then pointed to the stairs. Sebastian nodded, forced himself up and away from the frame. Walter heard him make his way downstairs.

It was closer to ten minutes before Walter felt he could leave Alex. He tenderly tucked the blankets around his lover and then went to deal with his lover's brother. 

He found Sebastian sitting at the kitchen table, drink in hand. The man was still white-faced, hands slightly trembling as he brought the glass to his mouth. He took more than a sip.

Walter sighed, pulled out one of the chairs and sat facing Sebastian.

"You felt that dream, did you?" He tried to make it sound like an everyday occurrence.

Sebastian nodded. He forced his gaze from the glass to Walter's face. "More than felt, actually. I think I shared it."

Walter had a general idea as to the contents of the nightmares. It had taken him months to get Alex to talk about them. He was forever claiming that he really didn't remember them. Walter thought it was more that he didn't want to, once he'd awakened.

"Bad?" Walter's voice was softly probing.

Sebastian took another drink. He sat staring at the glass between his hands. "It's dark. Pitch black. We...because I feel him...I'm in him...we're one. I really can't explain it better than that." He looked at Walter, almost pleading for his understanding. Walter nodded. Sebastian continued.

"We can't see anything. But we can feel. There's something that's come into where ever it is we are that frightens us. I can feel our heart pounding. Our body sweating. Then suddenly there are hands touching us. We freeze. They...they're hurting, the hands, they're hurting us. I want to scream, but Alex won't. He's holding it back."

Sebastian's voice hoarsened, his face grew shiny with sweaty. Walter stayed very quiet.

"The pain, it's growing worse. Harder to bear. I think we're being severed into two, the pain is that much. We can hear the person's gasps and moans. I know that it's a man. And then I know what he's doing to us. He's raping us. I want to scream, Walter, but Alex...he won't let me. Tells me it...the pain...will be worse if I do. I don't see how. I think we're going to lose consciousness. Maybe we do."

Sebastian, hands trembling, gulped down the last of his drink. He visibly forced himself to continue.

"Suddenly there's light. I realize that we were blindfolded. The light hurts our eyes. As it clears I realize two things. That we're a child, a young child. And that the face of the man who's hurt us is coming into focus.

"Oh, God, Walter! It's our face! The man who's raped us is us. Is me. Walter, I would never do that to Alex. Believe me, please. How can he think that I would rape him?" 

Walter's heart hurt at the anguish in Sebastian's plea. He reached out, took the man's hands in his. "Sebastian. That's not you. Think about it. If you and Alex are the child, you can't be the man. Yes, there was a man with your face. But it's not you. It's not you, Sebastian."

"Then who...Dear God! The man who created us? But..." Shocked, Sebatian was finding it hard to put his thoughts into words. They sounded so obscene to him. He tried again. "In the documentation you showed me, in the things Alex talked about, there was no mention...I mean, you said experimentation. This wasn't experimentation. This was rape. Of a child. A child that was his clone. Are you telling me..."

Walter stood up, went around the table. He put his arms around Sebastian the way he did with Alex when he was upset about something. He soothed him, softly recited the rhyme to him until Sebastian was more in control. Still holding him, Walter explained. "Yes, Alex was experimented upon. And, yes, the experiments were directed by the man who cloned you all from himself. Yes, he did rape Alex. He used him, trained him for what Alex called 'his particular passions'. I think it was a huge turn on for him to have himself as a sexual partner."

"He was a child," began Sebastian. 

"Yes, he was. And yes, he does have nightmares about those days. But they're less common these days. I think he's had another tonight because of the situation."

"I don't understand," Sebastian spoke against Walter's shoulder. Walter caressed the trembling head, let his hand drop to the shoulder and slowly, soothingly, he rubbed Sebastian's back. He had too much practice at this, he thought.

"I think Alex is worried that one day you'll take a good look at him and see the clone, the thing he was told he was, and that you'll reject him."

"No! I won't. How can he even think that? For something over which he had no control?"

"No, Sebastian, I don't believe you would. If I did, I would have opposed our staying with you. But Alex is slow to believe that he can be wanted. That he's not a freak, not a thing. That he can be loved."

"That's bloody stupid," said Sebastian, pulling his head back to look up at Walter. "You love him."

"Yes, I do. He knows that. But his acceptance of that didn't come overnight. Once in a while he still has doubts. Like you do."

Sebastian tugged and Walter let him go. He got him a glass of water, allowed the man time to blow his nose, wipe his face, get himself back under a semblance of control. Sebastian thanked him with a wobbly smile.

"You're right, you know," he said when Walter had taken his seat again. "I do doubt this relationship between the two of us. I mean, it was bad enough before, but now to know that Alex was...so badly abused. I mean, how can he look at me and not see the life he should have had? How can he not resent me? Hate me," he whispered.

"Why should I hate you?"

The two men turned and found Alex, sitting on the bottom step, watching them.

"I mean, it's not your fault. It's not like you asked for me to be the one he focused on." 

Walter was pleased to hear that Alex seemed genuinely concerned for his brother's attitude.

"No. But I am the one who got away."

Alex shrugged. "All three of you got away. Well, not *got* away. You were given away. And I got the feeling from some of the things you've told me that if your mother hadn't left her husband, it would have been different."

Sebastian nodded. "He hit her. Me, too, once. She left him after that. My father...Godfrey Tarquinn never hit either of us. The angriest he would get was to grow very still and then he would go for a walk. By the time he came home, he would have calmed down. I do the same thing when I'm angry. I guess I picked that up from him."

Alex stood up, came to crouch beside his brother's chair. "I'm sorry you were pulled into my nightmare. I really don't remember much of them when I wake up. Well, not since I wake up to Walter." He smiled at his lover. 

"Sebastian, I'm not used to having a brother. But I like it. I know you feel some sort of link to me. I would like that to be a good thing, not something that will make you hate me."

Sebastian reached out, stroked a side of the face that was also his. "I worry too, that you'll hate me. I don't want that. I was an only child, Alex. I always wanted a brother. A brother to love. A brother who would love me. Imperfections, foibles, peculiar habits and all."

Walter quietly got up, made his way back to bed. 

                              ++++

There was one more reference to the events of that night. The next afternoon, Sebastian waited until he and Walter were alone.

"This man who created us in his likeness," he spoke firmly, "where is he now?"

Walter shrugged. "Why do you want to know?"

"I want to kill him."

Sebastian held Walter's eyes. There was, realized Walter, more than one killer in this family.

"You're too late. He's dead."

"Are you certain? Do you know this for a fact?" challenged Sebastian.

Walter nodded. "Yes."

"How can you be sure?"

"I killed him."

Sebastian thought about that. "Thank you."

                              ++++

Now Alex was pouting. In stereo.

They were in Sebastian's den. Alex was sprawled out on the couch, nose in book, pointedly ignoring Walter who was sequestered in an armchair. Sebastian was working on some papers at his desk, also pointedly ignoring Walter. 

When Sebastian had a comment to make on what his students were forcing him to read, he made it to Alex. When Alex found a passage that he thought worthy of being shared, he shared it with Sebastian.

Pages were being turned over, whether in a book or of an essay, with expressive snaps.

Walter kept on reading his book, eyes firmly planted on the printed pages, fighting hard to control the grin that wanted to escape. Except for Sebastian's glasses, his accent, they pouted -- Walter covered up his laugh with a soft throat clearing cough -- in exactly the same manner. 

They both looked up at the cough, both mouths thinned. Both exhaled loudly, though Alex's was a little more expressive than Sebastian's. They exchanged a terse glance, both with the left eyebrow slightly raised, and then went back to their reading.

They were irritated with him. Two weeks after meeting for the very first time, they had become a united front. Both were quietly determined to get the information about this other brother Walter had promised them out of him.

Walter just shook his head, denying them any until he had confirmed all the information the Gunmen had sent him. He didn't want any little surprises this time, like the gun that had stared him in the face in a certain mathematician's office.

Because this time, if it didn't work out, there were two of them that would be hurt.

*****************************************************************

 

* * *

 

Title: THREE'S A CROWD  
Series: Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind  
Author: Josan, aided and abetted by Virgule Vaughan  
Betas: Skif and her virtual blue pencil. Karen-Leigh, who is to "blame" for these sequels by sending me all those Nick Lea tapes. I claim any inaccuracies...none of them -- and I'm sure there will be many -- are anyone else's fault.  
Date: November, 2000  
Summary: If you've read the original story and then you read the title of this one, you know what it's about.  
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: PG for most of it, but there is an NC-17 segment.  
Archive: Will be sent to RatB, but the rest of you who have asked can also take, if you want.  
Comments: OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try   
Disclaimer: Scully, the Lone Gunmen, Skinner and the original Krycek are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but all the others belong to me.   
Dedication: With thanks, to the people who voted for my stories in the WIRERIMS Awards. 

* * *

"You know," said Sebastian, looking around the square, eyes devouring every detail, spirit revelling in the mathematical balance of the architecture, "I've been to Italy several times, but this is my first visit to Venice. Quite surprising how different it is from the rest of the country."

Alex grunted in agreement. His experience of Europe was mainly with its eastern countries and a couple of quick visits to England with the Brit. Italy was a new experience for him. Like Sebastian, he too was checking out the square, though Walter knew that security was the reason behind Alex's careful examination. You could take the man out of the Consortium, Walter thought, but he brought his paranoia with him. 

This was also Walter's first visit to Venice. He'd been to Rome once for a conference on terrorism back in his AD days. Then, he'd been taken aback by the energy of the city. Here, there was a sense of energy as well, but it was older, hazier, more laid back. People took their time strolling to get from one place to the other; there wasn't any of the frantic rushing so common in other large cities. Probably because there were no real streets to hurry along.

There had never been any doubt that Sebastian would be joining them, so Walter had waited until the Professor had some time off to make his plans. All he had told them when he'd organized this trip was their destination, that they were going to meet a contact. Nothing else. They were still pouting about that.

Walter dawdled, letting the two brothers get ahead of him. The view, he grinned, was really quite nice.

Sebastian, thought Walter, looked like what he was. An academic on tour. He wore a light summer suit, sandy beige in colour that made his severely combed-back hair look more brown than black, a pale beige shirt with a brown tie, even in the morning heat. 

Alex was more casual. He wore his usual jeans, a relatively new pair -- the seams weren't yet white from use, a light chambray shirt, with the sleeves down, cuffs unbuttoned. Alex never rolled up his sleeves in public. His hair was less controlled, the light breeze ruffling it slightly.

Walter had felt the occasion called for something less formal than a suit, less casual than jeans. He was wearing a pair of light grey slacks with a summer sweater of a slightly darker grey.

Sebastian slipped his hands into his pants pockets, pulling the material tighter across his ass. Walter smiled. Nice ass. Actually, as he inspected the denim clad one next to it, a nice pair of asses. And from one or two glances he'd intercepted, he wasn't the only one who thought so.

Alex looked over his shoulder to make a comment, caught the grin on Walter's face. He nudged his brother. "So, Walt, enjoying the view?"

Walter's grin filled his face. "Oh, yeah."

Sebastian questioned Alex with a raised eyebrow.

"He's checking out our asses," explained Alex. Sebastian looked startled as he turned to face Walter.

"And a fine pair they are," Walter tried to assume a serious, academic face to go with the fine academic tone.

"Alike, are they?" Alex shifted his weight to a hip, waiting for Walter's answer. But Walter had caught the slight thread of insecurity that underlay the question. He came up to Alex and smiled at him.

"Yes, pretty much. Just like the rest of you. But, strangely enough, there's only one of them that I want to fuck."

"Only one, eh?" Alex nodded as though he were considering the statement.

"Only one." Walter reached for Alex's face and pulled it to his. 

Sebastian responded to the kiss with a raised eyebrow and a slight clearing of his throat. Then he just gave up, turned and looked at the graceful arches that decorated one of the palazzi.

One or two people stopped to look at the male couple, arms around each other, kissing in the morning light. One young man applauded. Walter and Alex pulled reluctantly apart.

It always surprised Walter to see how some things could make Alex blush. Sebastian merely took out his handkerchief, polished his glasses while pretending he had seen nothing.

"Just remember, Alex," Walter slipped his arm under Alex's, reached out for Sebastian, pulled them both in the direction he had been given by the owner of the pensionne where they were staying, "I could pick your ass out anywhere, even in a stadium filled with Krycek clone asses, because it's the only one I love."

Alex said nothing, but his smile made his eyes shine.

"Now *that* is so very romantic," scoffed Sebastian. But he too smiled. 

                              ++++

"Hang on. I think this is it."

Walter stopped in front of a door, checked the name on the discreet brass plaque against the one on the piece of paper he took out of his pocket.

The walls of the lower floor had been removed, probably even the floor above, leaving a wide open space with light flooding in through two levels of tall narrow windows.

And the artwork in the gallery needed it. The canvasses were large colourful pieces of abstract art.

At first, neither Alex nor Sebastian did more than glance around the gallery, one checking out entrances and exits, the other the set up. 

As they worked their way visually around the space, Walter noticed that first Sebastian, then Alex, began paying closer attention to the art work. Alex, Walter knew, was not that enamoured of modern art. The few pieces Sebastian had on his walls at home were more photographic than interpretive. 

Walter found a table to one side that had some brochures on it and a thin stack of paper that turned out to be a price list. He hitched his backside against the edge of the table, crossed his arms and watched as his lover and the man he now thought of as his brother-in-law slowly made their way around the room. Apart from a young woman who was focusing all her attention on a sculpture at the far end of the gallery, they were alone.

The canvasses ranged in size from about 3 by 4, to two huge pieces that were easily 10 by 20. The colours were vibrant jewel tones, in which a scarlet red, a dark turquoise, a matte black seemed to be favourites. The pieces resonated with emotion, with the force of the artist's personality.

Alex was chewing on his bottom lip the way he did when he was faced with something he had to work out for his own satisfaction. Sebastian was polishing his glasses again, a nervous habit, Walter had quickly picked up, when he wasn't sure what to do. It was obvious that they were attracted to the paintings, though it was just as obvious that they didn't really know why.

Somewhere a door opened and the sound of an argument flashed into the room, disappearing when the door closed. A harried looking young woman rushed into the room from a small hallway, noticed Walter who smiled at her. She looked back over her shoulder, shrugged, said something in a very quick Italian and continued on her way out.

The door must have opened again because the sound of two male voices arguing could once more be heard. Growing louder as the men made their way down the hallway, into the gallery.

One of the men was short, round, dressed in a business suit. He seemed to be trying to explain something to the other man who was gesturing wildly, obviously very upset about something.

Alex and Sebastian came and took places next to Walter, both very quiet, watching the emotional drama that was playing out in front of them. 

Business Suit was pointing to the small red dots that indicated a piece had been sold, making a point by slapping a fist into the palm of his other hand. The other man, who had to be the artist, was not pleased about something. His arms flung out, as if to embrace the entire room. His voice certainly did.

"Jesus!" whispered Alex.

"Oh, my," agreed Sebastian.

Walter grinned, just enjoying the spectacle.

The artwork was signed in a large, bold hand: Massimiliano. The brochure was for the exhibition of one Massimiliano de Gama.

The face of the man who was Massimiliano de Gama was the same as the two next to him, but that was the only thing that was the same. 

The hair, unbound, hung below the man's shoulders, midway to his waist. The wave that made Alex's bangs sometimes droop, that Sebastian tried so hard to control had been given full reign here. 

The faces next to him, so controlled unless under great emotion, suffered no such restriction in this third brother. Eyes flashing, mouth moving in rhythm with the wide arm, body gestures, no one had to guess at Massimiliano de Gama's emotions. As he paced the space in front of his artwork, the steps were long, aggressive, determined. The arm gestures encapsulated the entire room.

He was dressed differently too. Walter would bet anything that he would never see either Alex or Sebastian in a white blouson shirt, the oversized sleeves fluttering like wings with every outflung gesture. Nor the bolero-style black leather vest. The tight black pants that cupped ass like a second skin, that left little to the imagination at the groin. The thigh-high, tight black leather boots with the heels that easily added a couple of inches to Massimiliano's six foot height were even more unthinkable.

"Well," said Sebastian to his companions, "we now know where all the extroversion went."

"The flamboyance, too," agreed Alex.

At the sound of other voices, Business Suit looked away from the man yelling at him. His double take was almost cartoon-like. His reaction caught the other's attention. Massimiliano de Gama looked over his shoulder, ready to dismiss anyone who dared intrude on his discussion with his agent. He barely registered what he saw, turned to continue his diatribe with the man who now forced his attention back to his artist.

"Heterosexual," said Alex.

"Hmmm?" questioned Sebastian.

"In spite of all the yelling, his eyes keep checking out the woman by the statue. She's certainly keeping her eyes on him. And he knows it. He's playing to her."

"One less ass for you to worry about," teased Sebastian, though his eyes too never left this brother who acted as though he hadn't realized that his face was staring at him from two other bodies.

But he had.

Taking everyone by surprise, Massimiliano suddenly strode over to the table where the three men were propped, watching him. He took a stance in front of them, legs apart, fists on hips, looking them over with a slight sneer to his lip.

He said something to them, a short clipped sentence.

All three men shook their heads. 

"Sorry," said Sebastian, "I'm afraid I don't speak Italian. English, French and German."

The sneer grew as he turned his gaze onto Alex.

"English," started Alex.

"American," corrected Sebastian.

Massimiliano's eyes moved from one speaker to the other, his disapproval obvious.

"American, French, Russian. I get by in some of the Baltic dialects."

The eyes found Walter who shrugged. "American and Spanish."

There was a moment's silence then the man sighed, as if the weight of the world had been dropped onto his shoulders. "So. It is a good thing that I speak some of your English, some of your American." His voice was Alex's with a light Italian inflection.

Eyes glaring at all of them, he snapped something over his shoulder at Business Suit who hurried up, handing him a small note pad and a pen. Massimiliano barely looked down at the paper as he wrote something, tore the small sheet from the pad. He held the paper up in his hand, looked the three of them over as though assessing them. Then, with a haughty raised eyebrow, he handed the paper to Walter. "This afternoon. Any time after two."

He turned, smiled at the young woman who had approached, holding the brochure in her hand. With a sexy grin, he took it, signed it with a flourish, said something in a soft, sensual tone that had her blushing. He offered her his arm, and still blushing, the young woman took it. Together they left the gallery.

"Excuse me," said Sebastian to the Business Suit. "Do you speak English?" 

"Yes. Of course. I'm sorry, but are you related to Massimiliano?"

"That's what we're here to find out," said Walter.

"Not to get personal," Sebastian sounded apologetic, "but is the young woman his wife?"

Business Suit laughed. "His wife? Massimiliano de Gama with a wife? No. She must be a fan. He has become quite well known with his last few shows. And I'm pleased to say that there is nothing left in this showing that is unsold." 

Someone familiar entered the gallery and Business Suit left to attend them.

"Well," said Alex, not sure how he felt, "he certainly is a fast worker."

"Not," agreed Sebastian, " a personality trait either of us shares with him, I don't believe."

Walter just smiled.

                         ++++

  ----------

If Alex and Sebastian got any more nervous, thought Walter as they reached the fourth landing, he was going to have to frisk both of them for weapons. He knew from Alex's behaviour that he was jumpy enough to shoot-first-ask-questions later at any sudden noise. Fortunately, the only noise in the stairwell was the sound of their feet going up the wide stone stairway that had been worn thin by centuries of use. 

"Considering the prices he gets for his stuff," groused Alex under his breath, "you'd think he could live in a place with an elevator."

"They didn't build palazzi with elevators in the sixteenth century," countered Sebastian.

"Actually late fifteenth," said a voice from above.

Massimiliano de Gama was slouched against the wide doorway at the top of the stairs, arms crossed over his chest, watching them. He waited until they neared the door then turned and led the way in. The hair was in a thick braid that bounced slightly between his shoulders. The body was clad in paint-stained denim overalls, all he was wearing. He was barefoot.

The corner room was obviously his studio, its size indicating that walls had been removed. Light came from the two outer walls of windows and the sky-lights over head. The air held the smell of fresh paint. A large canvas against the inside wall shone with its fresh undercoat.

Massimiliano hoisted himself up onto the corner of a heavy table laden with cans of paint. He reached over, took a narrow case in hand, opened it then pulled out a narrow cheroot and lit it. He blew the smoke skywards all the while examining his guests as they, in turn, examined him.

"You have names?" he finally asked.

"Walter Skinner. This is Alex Krycek. That is Sebastian Tarquinn. We have cause to believe, Mr. de Gama, that you might be related to these two men."

De Gama scoffed. "I think more than related, Mr. Skinner. I am not blind. We carry the same face. What are we? Triplets?"

"Quads, actually." It had been agreed before they'd arrived that Walter would do the talking. 

De Gama shrugged. "So where is the other one?"

"We haven't found him yet. So far, the only ones my sources have been able to track down are Sebastian and you, Mr. de Gama."

"Why?" De Gama stuck the thin cigar in his mouth, reached for a large sketch pad. Eyes on his brothers, conversation directed at Walter, he made rapid gestures over the paper with a thick piece of charcoal.

"Why what?" Walter stood deceptively at ease to one side. Alex and Sebastian were to the other, Sebastian at Alex's left, leaving his right arm free for any kind of necessary action. It crossed Walter's mind that those two understood each other too easily. He doubted that facility with the man sketching, tearing off a sheet, tossing it over his shoulder, sketching again with rapid movements.

"Why bother? Why search? Why come?" De Gama moved his stare to Walter. Head slightly cocked in a familiar manner, eyes concentrated with no sign of the emotional artist from the gallery, de Gama focused on the spokesman for the group.

"It's a long story. Perhaps you would like to hear it?" Walter offered.

De Gama stopped sketching, inhaled, removed the cheroot from his mouth with the hand holding the charcoal. He blew the smoke upwards again, looking from Walter to the other two as he did so.

He pulled his legs up onto the table. Sitting crossed legged, he laid the sketch pad on his knees, clamped the cheroot between his teeth and went back to his sketching.

"But will I like this story, Mr. Skinner?" He was talking to Walter but his gaze was fixed on the two men who resembled him. The only times he moved his eyes from them was to glance down at the paper on his knees. He would make a few modifications, then go back to concentrating on them. Sebastian met his looks with a slightly raised eyebrow, a considering mien. Alex just stared back, face unexpressive.

"I really don't know. I know that Sebastian has accepted it but he did have to think about it first."

"May I ask what Mr. Tarquinn does?" De Gama ripped a sheet off the pad, tossed it behind him. He had started another sketch before the paper landed on the table top.

"Mr. Tarquinn," said Sebastian, less willing to consider, more willing to judge now, "is a Professor of Mathematics at Leeds University, in the North of England." His voice was pointedly upper class British.

"Ah. May I guess? Theoretical rather than practical mathematics." He smiled faintly at the surprise Sebastian was not quite able to hide. "You have the look of an academic about you." He pointed with his cheroot. "Your eyes have that slightly befuddled look of one who has left his tower for a visit to the village. And isn't certain he likes the difference."

"And what kind of look do I have?" Alex was using the neutral tone that usually sent Walter up the wall.

De Gama shrugged, kept on sketching. "You, my brother, are dangerous. What is it that you do? Soldier? You have the look of a man familiar with killing."

Walter quickly stepped up to de Gama knowing that Alex's tension was not a good thing.

"And you, Mr. Skinner. What is your role in all this?" Another sketch went flying over his shoulder.

"He's my lover," challenged Alex.

De Gama stopped drawing, looked from Walter to Alex. Incredibly, a smile appeared on his face. "Do you love him?" he asked Walter.

"Yes."

"But he is difficult to love."

Walter looked over his shoulder at Alex who was primed for some sort of action. "Not that difficult," he said softly. He saw a little of the tension leave Alex. He turned to face this third man with Alex's face. The man was once more sketching, this time his eyes on Walter.

"Is there a reason for your seeking us," he pointed to Sebastian and then himself with the piece of charcoal, "out?"

Walter was beginning to wish that de Gama would put the sketching aside and pay attention to him. "You're Italian, Mr. de Gama."

De Gama gave a little laugh. "Yes, Mr. Skinner. I have been for the last thirty years. What does my being Italian have to do with this?"

"It has always been my impression," continued Walter, "that family is important to Italians."

De Gama finally put down his charcoal, took the thin cigar out of his mouth. "Is this truly about family, Mr. Skinner? Only about family?"

"Only about family. There is no hidden agenda. This is only about finding Alex's brothers."

De Gama looked at Sebastian. "And is Alex worth having as a brother, Professor Tarquinn? Are you?"

Sebastian frowned at the Italian. "I think I might wonder more if you are worth having as a brother, Mr. de Gama," he snapped.

De Gama cocked his head in what Walter was beginning to see as an inherited gesture that all three brothers shared. He looked as though he were considering the question seriously. "I think that I would very happy," he said, gravely, "to have such a magnificent brother as I would be."

There was a stunned silence that Sebastian finally broke. "And humble with it."

De Gama shook his head. "Humble I am not. It's impossible for one as talented as myself to pretend to humility. But then, within family, there is no need to be humble. I am certain that you, Sebastian, are a magnificent mathematician. And that you, Alex, are a magnificent...marksman. We are copies of each other, are we not?" De Gama's smile was Alex's. The expression on his face a duplicate of the ironic one on Sebastian's. "If I am magnificent, can either of you be less than I?"

Walter couldn't help it. His laughter filled the open room. Alex grimaced slightly, not certain that he was comfortable with what was happening. Sebastian slowly shook his head in reluctant admiration.

De Gama ripped his last sketch off, tossed it back with the others as he hopped off the table. He stubbed out his cheroot against the table leg whose condition reflected this habit, strode over to a small cupboard where he took out four wine goblets. He reached under a table, came out with an unlabelled bottle of wine, found the corkscrew and opened it. 

He came back to the table, carrying the four glasses in his hands, the bottle clasped to his body by an arm. The goblets were individual masterpieces of Venetian glass, probably, thought Sebastian, worth a small fortune. The wine being poured was a dark ruby red.

"So," said de Gama, taking his glass in hand, passing it under his nose, relishing the bouquet, "perhaps now is the time to tell me this story you seem so anxious to tell me, Mr. Skinner."

Walter picked up his glass, sipped. The wine went down like velvet. Whatever reason the bottle was unlabelled it was not because it was a rough new wine. This had the rich taste of aging.

Sebastian sipped his, considered. With a beginning smile, he offered a silent appreciative toast to his new brother. De Gama returned it.

Alex was the last to pick up the wine. He looked at their host as he too sipped. There was no overt reaction apart from his taking a second sip.

De Gama grinned at Walter. "Difficult, but worth it, is he not, Mr. Skinner?"

Walter grinned back. "I think you'd better call me Walter."

De Gama nodded. "I am Massimiliano. My friends call me Mass. Can family do less?"

                         ++++

Mass gave them a quick tour of his studio. Alex stayed at the table, eyes on this newest brother whose charm seemed to have captivated his lover and his brother. He wasn't so sure.

Checking to see that the others were involved in some conversation, he reached over, pulled the drawings over and studied them one by one.

There was one of Walter that with just a few strokes of charcoal caught the serious pleasure that he so loved to see on Walter's face. From the order, it must have been when Walter had openly admitted his love. That Walter was never shy, never too reticent to admit his feelings for an ex-assassin, a clone, a Fourth One was one of the wonders of Alex's life.

There were a couple of Sebastian. The befuddled academic was one of them, with that faraway look his eyes got when he was contemplating some abstract theorem. The other made Alex aware that this brother may be far too perceptive. This Sebastian was anything but a befuddled academic. It was the face of the man who would think nothing of pulling out an illegal weapon on a stranger from America.

Alex hesitated before placing that one on the others. The next one was of him. The face was that of Sebastian in the last sketch, but harder, colder. More threatening. More dangerous. The killer. 

All right, he thought, so he wasn't that good at hiding what he was. What he had been. He flicked that one onto the small pile with a sense of disdain. And then looked at the next one and his heart stopped.

This face was one that he was certain only Walter had ever seen. Head held stiffly, mouth tightly clasped shut. Eyes revealing all the pain he thought he never showed. The fear.

Fuck, he thought.

"That one displeases you?"

Alex tore his eyes from the sketch to look at this brother. Mass bore the anger of his gaze. 

"Ah, you don't like that I can see so much of your soul?"

Sebastian looked over Alex's shoulder, placed a protective hand on it. "I think it is more whether there is yet another person who is linked with him."

"Linked?" Mass looked from one brother to the other. Alex, he knew was controlling his anger. Sebastian looked ready to defend him. He let some of his confusion loose. "What? What is it that you're hiding from me?"

"What made you sketch Alex this way?" Walter picked up the drawing, marvelling at Mass's skill.

Mass looked as though he was ready to retract his offer of friendship to them. Then he caught the glance Sebastian sent Walter and he forced himself to calm down. There was something here he did not yet understand. But he would.

"There, there and there," he pointed to Alex's face, to the corner of his eyes, to the edges of his mouth. "The signs of a man used to holding back his emotions. Men, even men as controlled as he is, do not hold back happiness, joy, pleasure. I am an artist. An excellent artist. As Sebastian reads his numbers, I can read faces. And that," he pointed to the sketch, "is what I read. Now will someone tell me what it is I should know and what it is you are not telling me?"

                         ++++

  ----------

Prozia Maria-Louisa took her place at the head of the table and signalled to Raphaella to begin serving.

Mass, at the other end of the long table, smiled at the family matriarch. A mere 92, Prozia Maria-Louisa was a tiny, wizened woman who dressed always in a jet-black that matched her shiny bird-like eyes, eyes which never missed anything. She would nibble at the tablespoon servings of the feast all the while listening in on the many conversations, adding her opinion loudly in that old woman shrill voice when she felt it was warranted.

The fact that this gathering was bilingual would not be a deterrent. She had placed her people around the visitors so that not only they but she too could follow the gist of the table talk.

As was her due, Prozia Maria-Louisa was served first by Raphaella who was herself only a decade younger. The kitchen work had long ago been handed over to her daughter and granddaughter, but she still oversaw its workings, always personally served her mistress. The two of them had been together for most of Raphaella's life and communicated as one.

The feast -- not that the de Gamas needed any great reason to hold one -- was in honour of the three men who had, at Mass's insistence, joined the household, moving into the third floor of the palazzo where Mass had his private quarters. As people passed around the huge platters of the never-ending parade of food, Mass watched the reactions of his newly-found brothers and their friend to his family.

Sebastian, at first, looked overwhelmed by the noise, the smells -- Mass would swear that he saw Sebastian's nose twitch in surprise at all the new aromas that assaulted it. It didn't take more than a couple of glasses of the robust wine the family favoured for him to succumb to the food, the atmosphere. To the attention that Raphaella paid him, worrying aloud about his thinness.

"Signore Sebastino," Piero, the family black sheep, translated between mouthfuls of the scallop and mushroom salad, "Raphaella wishes to know if you have been ill?"

Sebastian, amazed at the food that appeared on his plate without his reaching for any, shook his head. It was hard for him to speak because his mouth was filled with avocado stuffed with cheese and nuts.

"Then, she asks, why is it that you have so little flesh on your bones? Do you not eat?"

Sebastian swallowed hastily, looked surprised to find a glass of cool wine in his hand. He took a sip, eyes closing in appreciation. "Yes, I do eat. But never anything as wonderful as this. Please, convey my appreciation to Signora Raphaella."

Raphaella grinned at him, patted him on the shoulder, said something to Prozia Maria-Louisa that had them both cackling.

Walter was seated between the two members of the family who shared Mass's studio space on the uppermost floor. Carlo was a sculptor; Matteo, a portraitist. Mass was fussy about sharing his space. That he had chosen to do so with these two, even though they were only in their twenties, was a sign to all that they had definite futures in the family business.

They translated for Walter, between the perpetual arguments about their own career choices, which they conducted behind, in front of, around Walter. 

From the quick explanation Carlo had provided, with Matteo adding his two cents worth -- often at the same time as Carlo, Walter learnt that the palazzo was home base for all members of the family, whether they lived in the area or not. That the palazzo served as a sort of hotel for those members who travelled throughout Italy and Europe. 

The de Gamas were either artists, gallery owners --Business Suit was cousin Marco, or agents. To add to the theatrics of the family, not that they needed any more, there were also several actors, a successful playwright and two designers.

Only Piero had chosen a career that almost embarrassed them when he mentioned it. Tall, thin, eyes inherited from his grandmother, Prozia Maria-Louisa, he was an accountant. But even he worked solely for the family, keeping their books, doing their taxes.

"Stifling our creativity," accused Marco, laughing.

"Keeping you out of court and prison," countered Piero, calmly helping himself to another serving of the seafood salad. 

Alex had been placed across from Sebastian, between the two designers. His silence throughout the meal barely went noticed as Fabrizio, the stage designer, argued colours with Constanza, the costume designer.

Only Mass seemed to be aware, as he regaled the table with his early exploits, that this brother sat watching the small dramas around him as though he were far removed from them. Like Prozia Maria-Louisa, Alex did not eat much, only tasted whatever appeared in front of him. But Mass did notice that he drank every glass of wine, accepting refills of the hardier ones.

Mass began telling the story of his "birth" as a de Gama over the first course, continued throughout the meal. He spoke in English, for the benefit of the new members of his family, with others translating for those who couldn't follow. It was no quick telling as everyone had comments to make, asides to throw in, arguments to "clear" minor points. Typical de Gama behaviour.

"Like Sebastian, I, too, was given to a company family to bring up."

"Poo!" said Prozia Maria-Louisa. "What a thing to do to a baby! Surely, there had to be family somewhere, was there not," she turned to Walter for confirmation, "who could have taken in such beautiful babies? Such beautiful men," she pointed out the three brothers, "had to have been beautiful babies. How else could they be now such beautiful men?"

Sebastian blushed as everyone at the table looked at him, then at Alex who met their smiles with a blank look.

Walter wondered aloud, as platters of pasta appeared on the table, "Are we really expected to eat all this?"

Marco looked up from serving himself a helping of spaghetti with garlic, olive oil and chili peppers. "We are only starting, Walter." 

The de Gamas laughed.

Mass continued. "Unlike this brother of mine," he pointed his wine glass at Sebastian, "I was not so fortunate. This family accepted me because they had to, not because they wanted, or cared."

Raphaella shook her head sadly. She patted her chest over her heart. "So cruel. Not to love a sweet child like our Massimiliano."

"And they made certain that I knew I was not part of them. They told me over and over again," Mass drew out the melodrama of the moment, "that these people were *not* my family. The adults *not* my parents. Their children *not* my siblings. That I was with them only until *Someone* -- an unspecified Someone, but always spoken of in hushed tones -- decided what was to be done with me." 

Zia Fortuna, one of the elders though she was a mere 77, scurried over like the mouse she appeared to be, to give Mass a hug. "They did not know what a treasure they had!"

She made her way over to Sebastian, gave him a hug too. "And you, did the people who had you know what a jewel you were?"

"My mother loved me," answered Sebastian, already slightly drunk, eyes filling from the easy affection given him by these people who had never before even known of his existence. "Then the man she married was wonderful."

"Good," said Raphaella to Prozia Maria-Louisa who handed her handkerchief over to Zia Fortuna who was easily moved.

No one, Mass noted, taking a sip of his wine, approached his other brother with a similar sentiment. Something about him told them that it would not be appreciated, nor accepted.

"Now, even though I was then a Roger..."

"Roger! What a name, that!" Delizia was one of the stars of a popular soap opera.

"What? It's a good name! I used for the hero of my last play."

"It's a boring name, Mish. Your character who bore it was boring, too. Admit it! You had to give him a boring name to go with his boring personality."

Mish took offense. He stood, gesturing with his fork at his pretty cousin. "*Roger* is *not* a boring name!"

"Prove it," she challenged him, forking a tortellini stuffed with aubergine and zucchini into her mouth. "Hmmmmmm, Raphaella, perfection. As always."

"There are many Rogers who are not boring. Roger Moore. Double-O-Seven. You cannot say that Double-O-Seven is a boring man!"

"The exception, Mish. It proves nothing."

Mass raised his voice. "I did not miss having them as family," he continued as though he had never been interrupted. "We moved a great deal. Everywhere we moved to there were other people, friends, to become a sort of family."

"How long were you with them?" asked Walter, ignoring the argument about this year's greens versus oranges waging behind him. He refused a second helping of macaroni stuffed peppers.

"Nine years."

Prozia Maria-Louisa's thin, shrill voice cut through all conversations. "That a boy should have family and yet have to call others his family...shame on them. They should be ashamed to call themselves family."

Mass shrugged. "It was not that bad. The people who were my friends were people like me, misfits." He grinned widely at some memory. "The adults who had been given me spent a great deal of time in the offices of the principals, wherever we went."

"A juvenile delinquent, Mass, that's what you were," teased Matteo, whose own exploits with the directors of schools, even the police, filled the arrival of the main part of the meal.

For several minutes there were only the sounds of ohs and ahs over the dishes, serving implements against china, moans and groans of appreciation. Raphaella blushed with pleasure, as did her daughter and granddaughter as they passed along the meats and fish they had prepared for anyone's and everyone's delight.

Carlo went around refilling glasses, having his cheek pinched by Cugino Uberto who had forgotten that Carlo was no longer a small child.

When all the dishes had been tasted, Mass claimed centre stage once more. "Now then, this Roger that I had been, he knew what he wanted to do with his life, Someone or no Someone. He wanted to be an artist."

"Of course," said Marco. "All too obvious to anyone with eyes."

"And I said so. Often. To the annoyance of these people I lived with."

Zia Fortuna tut-tutted loudly.

"They informed me that whatever had been planned for me, I could be certain that Art had no role."

Some heads shook sadly.

"That Art was nothing but a waste of time."

This time there were scandalized sounds all round the table. Even Sebastian voiced his astonishment. 

Walter, savouring the tender lamb, eyed the dramatics with a chuckle.

Delizia was emoting her shock worthy of an award to an appreciative Mish. The artists shook their heads, muttering about people who cast such aspersions as to the worthiness of their craft. 

Even Piero was shaking his head. "I do not understand this attitude," he told Sebastian, serving him more of the rabbit on Raphaella's orders.

"It was," Mass informed the table with a grin, "the only time I was beaten."

"By them," said Fabrizio. "I seem to remember giving you a bloody nose or two."

"Sheer luck," countered Mass.

"Some pretty girl must have been passing by," smirked Constanza, whose own dramatic looks coupled with a flare for the flamboyant -- she was wearing an outfit composed of the argumentative green/orange combination -- had been known to stop traffic on occasion.

"That must have been the last straw because the next day, when I returned from school, I arrived to find that what little I owned had been packed into a couple of small suitcases and these, along with the father, were waiting for me in the foyer."

"What a way to treat a precious child!" moaned Prozia Maria-Louisa, reclaiming her handkerchief from Zia Fortuna. Raphaella patted her on the shoulder, putting her own handkerchief to use.

"I was told that we were leaving for Geneva where a representative of the Consortium would be taking me off his hands."

"As if he deserved keeping such a prize!" Alicia, who was Piero's twin sister and who owned three art galleries, one of which was based in London, commented in her usual sarcastic tones. Mass answered her with a haughtily raised eyebrow. She turned her body so that the Elders wouldn't see her and made a face at him. She was still upset that he hadn't used one of her galleries for his last show. Marco grinned, unrepentant.

"At best, he told me -- with some relish," Mass ignored Alicia's knowing nod, "I was headed for a military school where some discipline would be instilled in me."

Mish made a rude noise at that. Everyone laughed.

"Vittorio had a great time trying to instill some of that in you as well. I seem to remember some truly loud 'discussions' between the two of you," Marco chuckled.

Prozia Maria-Louisa and Raphaella both nodded, rolling their eyes. Prozia Maria-Louisa even clapped her hands over her ears. "Ah, the noise! You two could never have a quiet argument."

"An argument," pontificated Mass, "is not conducted in silence. Besides Vittorio enjoyed arguing as much as I did. Where do you think I picked up my ability to wear out agents who refuse to hang my masterpieces properly?" He glared at Marco who ignored him to accept more of the chicken. Alicia smirked.

"At worst...well, he didn't care. He told me I deserved whatever happened to me. I had asked for this by my refusal to behave properly."

"Disgusting. There are people who should never be allowed near children, do you not agree, Signore Sebastino?" Raphaella served him more of the ossibuchi. 

"But this Roger that I was also had plans."

"Of course you did," said Carlo. "When are you ever without a plan?" he laughed.

"The things I will tell you about our Mass and his plans," whispered Delizia around Cugino Uberto to Walter who was trying to decide between a second helping of the gnocchi or of the risotto.

"So we landed in Geneva, as Roger's luck would have it, at the same time as some actor, a then sex symbol, arrived to shoot a new movie." 

"Who was it? Do you remember?" Marco wanted to know.

"Some flash in the pan," replied Mass, stealing the last of the scampi as the platter went by. "There and then no more. I think he now runs a restaurant in Soho, somewhere. Maybe Sebastian will know."

"Don't look at me," countered Sebastian, replete with food, wine, good humour. "The last film I went to see was 'Ghost' with my then companion."

"Oh! That was a wonderful film," sighed Francesca, who until then had been quiet in the way of the younger members of the family. She was still new at this joining the adults for these meals. The last thing she wanted to do was mis-step her way back to the children's table.

"Bah," scoffed her slightly older cousin, Dante. "It was pure bunk."

Prozia Maria-Louisa pulled rank and made them stop before another argument began. "I liked that film. Pa-ta-rique Swayze was beautiful in it. Of course, not as beautiful as you will be, Dante, when you play such a role." 

"The terminal was filled with screaming females, security people, publicity agents, the Media. In the confusion, the father "lost" Roger."

"Only right," said Raphaella as she supervised the cleaning off of the table, in preparation for the desserts.

"Now then, I was not stupid. I did have a small hoard of money with me. It did not take great intelligence to read the signs that the parents were losing whatever patience they might have had with me. For some reason," Mass tried, rather unsuccessfully, to look bemused, "they found me to be an extremely bad influence on their own children."

"Now that is something hard to imagine," Piero and Mish exchanged toasts as Carlo poured champagne to accompany the desserts.

Mass grinned, raised his in salute to them. "I had planned to escape, but I hadn't really been quite ready. Still, one doesn't refuse a gift when it is offered. 

"With only the clothes on my back, a cache of money that would barely keep me for more than a couple of weeks, a tourist map I pinched from one of the airport kiosks, the Roger I was no longer made his way into Italy."

"Bravo, Massimiliano," chirped Zia Fortuna.

"And I knew exactly where I wanted to go." 

Here the table grew very quiet. They had heard this story many times, but this was the part they all loved to hear.

"To Venice. To the Atelier of the renown Vittorio de Gama."

Prozia Maria-Louisa took out her handkerchief again and wiped her eyes. "He was such a good man, my cousin, Vittorio. As well as being a great artist. I miss him still."

Everyone around the table, with the exception of Alex, nodded.

"I had read an article about this great painter/sculptor in a friend's home. My heart ached with the beauty of his work." 

"And it was beautiful," agreed Carlo quietly.

"Spoke to the heart," said Matteo, "because it came from the heart."

"The article had included the location of the Atelier and the information that de Gama sometimes took on students whom he felt were worthy of his attention."

"Of course," said Matteo, "it never crossed Roger's mind that he wouldn't qualify."

"Of course not," said Constanza. "Even as a Roger, Mass knew his worth."

Delizia and Alicia exchanged knowing smiles.

"I did make it to Venice. With only the very few words of Italian I had taught myself with a dictionary..."

"Such courage!" Prozia Maria-Louisa smiled at the man who sat opposite her.

"...It took me a mere three days. My luck was good," conceded Mass humbly. "I found people very sympathetic to the story of a young lad, abused by his step-father -- I had the marks on my back to prove it..."

"Barbarians!" Raphaella directed her granddaughter to place the desserts on the table so that people could help themselves. And then she, her daughter and granddaughter found chairs and joined the table. Walter poured each of them a glass of champagne.

"I was but a poor boy who wanted nothing more but to be reunited with his father's family. The last person who picked me up not only brought me the rest of the way to Venice, he even escorted me to the door of the Atelier.

"Let me tell you, Vittorio de Gama was surprised to find that he had a grandson who was willing to put his very life at risk to return to the family fold. Especially as his only child, a daughter, had died as a teenager."

"Maria was too good for this world," sniffed Raphaella.

"She had a heart as big as her father's, even as a baby. Everyone loved her," said Marco who remembered his cousin from his childhood.

"See this scar," the stage designer pointed to a whitish mark about an inch long on his chin, "she put it there, this angel."

"You deserved it, Fabrizio. You were teasing her."

"I'm just reminding everyone that she also had her father's temper."

"And his aim. She hit you with a stone, didn't she?"

Fabrizio grinned. "I bled for hours. She never apologized for causing me such pain."

"She was an imp," agreed Prozia Maria-Louisa, "but we loved her so."

"What did she die of?" Walter asked.

"The meningitis," said Matteo. "She was sixteen. It nearly killed Vittorio." 

There was a moment's actual silence as those de Gamas sitting at the table remembered that time.

"Vittorio was intuitive enough to wait until the kind stranger left, looked at me, this 12 year old boy who had come out of nowhere claiming relationship, and told me that he would be informing the authorities about my presence in the morning."

"So what did you do to change his mind?" Walter sat back in his chair, face ruddy from all the wine and food he had consumed.

"I said nothing. He went up to his studio and I followed him. 

"Heaven," said Mass. "I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

"He ignored me as I looked around. Later, he told me I resembled a child in a candy store.

"I found a sketch pad and a piece of charcoal. He still didn't say anything when I hoisted myself up on this table he had in the corner. He left me alone. I must have done a dozen sketches of the studio and him when he came up to me and took the pad out of my hands. He went through all of them before he began questioning me. Who I was. Why I had run away.

"He listened to me. Really listened to me." Mass shook his head in awe, still amazed by the fact after all these years. "No one had ever listened to me the way he did."

He looked around the table at these people, his family, smiled tenderly. "He listened and then he let me stay." 

"Well, Vittorio did contact certain people to see if the boy was being looked for," said Piero, who also had access to all the family papers. "No one could find a bulletin for a boy who fitted Mass's description and who had gone missing.

"He waited one year, then called a family gathering. Announced that he was adopting the boy as his grandson and did anyone have anything to say about the fact."

Piero looked at Mass and grinned. "As if anyone would have dared. Fortunately, Mass is adorable." Everyone laughed. "He has assumed the mantle of elder de Gama artist in a way that would have made Vittorio proud. He makes us proud to have accepted him into the family as one of us." 

Piero stood up, raised his glass of champagne along with everyone else and saluted the head of the family with a toast that, though offered with laughter, was no less sincere for it.

"Massimiliano, our leader. Beloved by all."

                         ++++

  ----------

Well, Walter had to admit to himself after three days, by all except Alex.

Sebastian was attracted to Mass as he had been to the paintings in the gallery. Attracted without really knowing why and not totally comfortable with it. Hesitantly, because it wasn't in his nature to be gregarious, and the concept of a large family being fairly foreign to him, Sebastian hovered along the edges before finally allowing himself to be pulled in, if only so far. 

He felt far more at ease in the company of Piero than he did the dramatic members of the family. Piero, on his side, was delighted to be able to discuss the beauty he found in numbers with someone who would not treat him like a philistine because he did so. 

Walter was also accepted as enthusiastically as Sebastian. And Walter was enchanted by this multi-generational conglomerate. Their boisterousness, their generosity, their loudness. He had been brought up in a large family that, though not as energetic as this one, had had its comparable moments. 

And he found he enjoyed learning the history of the palazzo with Prozia Maria-Louisa and Raphaella as much as being cornered by Mish, the playwright, whose next work was to include a murder. Mish wanted to make certain he had all his facts about corpses right.

Alex did not hover around the edges, did not join in. He sat firmly on the outside looking in, as he had most of his life. Scully would have informed him that he was Kryceking.

It wasn't that he wasn't included, that Mass didn't try to reach this man who was so different from himself. He always tried to include Alex in the conversations that took place around the table. 

A couple of days after the feast, Mass invited Alex to join him on a tour of the family galleries. But though Alex did go, he didn't speak unless specifically addressed. When they returned to the palazzo, Alex politely thanked Mass for the tour and then went up to the room he was sharing with Walter.

The more the de Gamas tried to include him, the more Mass tried to understand this youngest brother, the more Alex withdrew.

Walter was having too much fun to notice. He knew that Alex was more reticent than most people, but the way he and Sebastian had almost immediately clicked together made him less aware of Alex's reactions to this brother. And the continuous family celebration of the arrival of Mass's brothers made it hard for Walter to go to bed sober. 

By the fourth day, the relatives were slowly returning to their own homes, to their work and Walter finally noticed Alex and his lack of enthusiasm. When he approached Alex about it, Alex merely shrugged, told him he was all right. That nothing was wrong.

Walter wasn't sure what woke him that night. He thought maybe it was Alex having a nightmare but discovered that Alex was not beside him in the bed. That he wasn't in the room. Quickly, Walter found some clothes, threw them on. The palazzo proved its age at night: there was no central heating system and the rooms were cold by American standards.

He quickly checked the other rooms on the floor. Sebastian was sound asleep, only the top of his head showing from his cocoon of blankets. The office, salon were empty. So was Mass's bed. So the two of them weren't talking there, thought Walter. Probably up in the Studio. He would quietly check: Mass and Alex needed some time together. He had also noticed Alex's observation of Mass as though he were an unexpected result of some experiment.

Walter went to the door that opened into the stairwell and there he found Alex. Sitting on the third step down, staring at nothing in the semi-darkness. The only illumination came from the skylight.

Walter slowly sat on the top step. He had seen enough by the faint light to know that this Alex was one he hadn't seen since the night Alex had rescued Lissa. An Alex who was expecting to be rejected. Walter silently cursed himself for not having picked up the signals that, on looking back over the last days, were blatantly obvious.

"Alex?" He made his voice calm, concerned. "What's wrong?"

Alex said nothing. Walter didn't push the issue, knowing that Alex had heard him. He would wait. It took several minutes during which he wondered if Alex wasn't cold, sitting there on the stone step wearing nothing but a pair of Walter's sweat pants. He was debating whether he should get a blanket when Alex broke his silence.

"He's not like me."

Walter winced at the depressed tone. "Did you expect him to be?"

The back of Alex's shoulders raised slightly in a hesitant shrug.

"I guess," Walter spoke softly, "after meeting Sebastian, that was a reasonable expectation. You and Sebastian hit it off so well so quickly probably because the two of you are more similar. Sebastian may not be a Fourth One, but the connection between the two of you is strong. Maybe," he offered gently, "it was too much to expect that this connection would exist with Mass as well."

"Maybe," agreed Alex. "But..."

"But?" And waited.

Alex leaned his head against the railing that led to the landing. "But I didn't think he'd be so much more human than me."

Walter closed his eyes, grimaced. Damn! He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. "Alex. Do you think that Sebastian is more human than you are?"

Alex's shrug was undecipherable.

"He is closer to you in temperament. That's true. Alex, Mass is not more human than you. Just of a different temperament. It happens. In families where there are more than one sibling, they share similarities, but they are usually very different as well. That's all this is. You're the introvert of this trio; Mass, the extrovert. One is not more human than the other. Not less human. Just different."

"He's more than different. He's more appealing. If I had shown up at Vittorio de Gama's door, he wouldn't have let me in, never mind adopted me. And he's more likeable. Everywhere we go, when he talks, they hang on to his every word."

"They?"

"The de Gamas. He's not one of them, but they've accepted him like he was."

"Of their blood. Yes. They have."

"And Sebastian likes him. Finds him amusing."

"Yes," agreed Walter, knowing where this was going. "I find him amusing, too. Is that part of the problem?"

Alex's head lowered as though he were inspecting something at this feet. He sighed. "I don't know." He raised his head, spoke over his shoulder, not looking at Walter. "Maybe. Maybe," he continued before Walter could say anything, "it's because, watching him, I know he wouldn't have reacted to...to things the way I did."

Walter wasn't sure he wanted to go into this territory tonight: there were too many minefields waiting to explode. Still, he straightened his spine, kept his voice as calm as he could and plowed in: "How do you think he would have reacted?"

Alex rubbed the truncated arm the way he did when he had phantom pains. When he first started talking, his voice was so faint that Walter had to lean over to hear him. 

"Once...I guess looking back I must have been about Mass's age when he ran away...I was moved to a house.

"From the window in the room I was given...the window was barred, but I could see outside. There was forest all round the side, the back of the house, forest that seemed to go on forever. I used to watch that forest whenever I could. 

"In the mornings, I was taken to the library of the house and someone the Creator had chosen taught me. School subjects. My afternoons, sometimes the evenings, they belonged to the Creator. Then they would take me upstairs and lock me into the bedroom. If I could, I would go to the window and look at the forest. 

"It was lit up by the house lights and at the far side, there were some lights that shone on the trees. I guess, for security reasons. 

"I didn't look at the forest with anything in mind. It was just there. I do remember wondering if it went on forever. And that looking at it helped me blank out whatever had happened that day.

"Then, one day, there was a break in the routine. Instead of taking me to the Creator after classes, the tutor took me outside. He left me there. Told me not to move.

"There was a wide patio at the front and side of the house. With steps that went down to the grounds. To the forest.

"I stood there. Looking at the forest. The next thing I knew I was running for it, through it. Running like the devil was after me."

Jesus, thought Walter, his throat closing.

"I don't really know if I thought I could get away. I just ran. After a while, I could hear dogs. Behind me. So I ran faster. The trees were really close together so I never saw the fence until I ran into it. It was electrified. Not high voltage. Just enough to stun me."

Alex made a sound that might barely have passed for a chuckle. "I didn't know that in Europe they fenced in entire forests."

Walter found it hard to breathe.

Alex continued. "I ran along the fence, looking for some gate, a way to get out. Finally, I took off my shirt, wrapped my hands in it and tried to get over the fence. They had raised the voltage. Enough to throw me to the ground. The dogs found me. Then their trainers.

"The Creator was waiting for us at the steps when we got back. I was scratched from running through the trees, my hands were burnt from the fence. He laughed when he saw me. 

"He said, 'Clone, where in heaven's name did you think you were going? I see there are a few more lessons you need to learn.'

"I don't know how long it was after. Maybe a couple of months. There was some snow on the ground. The Creator came for me early and took me outside. To that same place at the top of the stairs. He didn't say anything to me. Just left me there. It was cold and I wasn't dressed for the outdoors. But I stayed there. Not moving. Until he came for me."

"Alex." The revulsion he felt growing within him as he listened made Walter wish he hadn't killed the Creator just for the pleasure of doing so again.

"That's the difference between me and Mass." Alex's tone had turned considering. "I stood there. Mass, he would have made for the fence again. No matter what was done to him. He would have found a way over the fence."

"Alex! You can't be sure of that."

Alex ignored Walter's horrified voice. "Once the Creator told me that I learnt best with pain because it was one of the few things I felt. That I enjoyed. Maybe he was right. Maybe that's why I didn't try for the fence again. Maybe I didn't really want to get away."

Walter's voice harshened with his anger. "That's bullshit, Alex. And you know it. You didn't enjoy pain. You *don't* enjoy pain. If you did, our relationship would be very different than what it is. Probably it wouldn't even exist because I don't see how giving pain, or taking it, is something I would want in any relationship.

"Alex," Walter reached out for his lover. "Shit, Alex! You're a block of ice. Enough of this. Come back to bed and let me get you warm. Jesus, Alex. Come on. Stand up. That's it." He slipped his arm around Alex's shoulders and pulled him back into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

Curled tightly into himself on the small landing by the studio door, Massimiliano de Gama finally moved and silently used his shirt sleeve to wipe the wetness, the mucus off his face. 

  ----------

The next morning, upon getting up, Walter sought Mass out in his studio, to ask him for the name of a hotel he could spirit Alex away to for a day. 

Instead of the usual ebullient artist, he found a man whose pensive quietness reminded him more of the man sleeping in his bed. Mass merely inquired what it was he needed, called the hotel and made all the necessary arrangements. 

Walter was on his way out of the studio when Mass stopped him. "You do love him, don't you?"

"Yes." Walter wondered again what could have happened to quiet Mass to this extent.

"As he is?"

"Yes. As he is."

Still serious, Mass nodded, letting Walter go.

Sebastian was not all that surprised at the announcement that Walter and Alex were off for some time by themselves. But then, thought Walter, he was more in tune with Alex.

Alex was slow to rouse. Slow to dress, to follow Walter out of the palazzo and into a motorboat that served as taxi.

Alex barely registered where they were going. Eyes squinting against the light, staring dully ahead, he showed no interest in where they were headed. 

More than anything else, his lack of concern to possible danger in their surroundings worried Walter. Alex never went anywhere without checking for possible escape routes; it was ingrained in him.

The water taxi pulled up at a dock where a liveried man helped hold the boat steady as Alex, once nudged, preceded Walter onto the landing and into the lobby of a hotel. Walter watched Alex's eyes barely peruse the area once and then come back to watching him sign in.

The building had been modernized not that long ago. The elevator that took them and another liveried staff member up to the top floor, the sixth, was shiny new. As was the card that their escort used to let them into the large open room with its king-sized bed and balcony that overlooked the lagoon.

Alex waited until the man left before he focused his attention on Walter.

"Is this," he spoke as if he barely had the energy to do so, "where you tell me good-bye?"

Walter shook his head. He came to stand in front of Alex, brushed the back of one hand across the cheek of the man watching him with heavy eyes. "No. No, Alex. Just some time for the two of us. Together. Alone. That's all."

Alex's face lost some of its blankness.

And then Walter placed a finger on Alex's mouth, shook his head. When he was certain that Alex understood he was not to speak, he placed a finger on his own lips and nodded.

There was to be no speaking. From either of them. 

The first thing Walter did was draw the drapes, shutting out the bright morning light, darkening the room. 

He left Alex standing by the bed and went into the ensuite bathroom, came back out with a couple of the white bathsheets, a bottle of something in his hand. He tossed the items on a chair by the bed, threw his jacket on top of another and methodically turned down the bed so that the bedspread, the blankets, the top sheet were carefully folded into a narrow strip at the foot of the bed. Then he spread out the bath sheets, one on top of the other, in the middle.

Alex watched, waiting, beginning to show some interest in the proceedings. Silent as he had been bid.

Walter stood in front of Alex and began undressing him. Alex raised his hand to help simply to have it captured and returned to his side. He moved only when Walter signalled him to lift first one foot, then the other, so that boots and socks could be removed, along with jeans and shorts.

The prosthesis was taken off, laid on a bureau top along with Alex's watch. Walter added his glasses and watch to the collection.

At Walter's signalled instructions, Alex took a place, face down, on the thin mat of towelling on the bed. He automatically spread his legs apart, raised his hips, as if waiting to be penetrated.

Instead, after the few moments it took him to undress, Walter straddled his body and placed his hands on Alex's head, slowly massaging, working on the headache he knew was drumming away at the inside of Alex's skull.

Alex straightened his legs and closed his eyes. After a few minutes of the fingertips rubbing all the right spots, he sighed deeply.

Walter smiled.

What followed was a leisurely, thorough body massage. Walter had given Alex a few when the truth about his background had become known. Alex had needed touch then to overwrite the memories of his time with the Creator. Walter really couldn't pinpoint the last time they had done this. Obviously, too long ago.

Now, Walter required nothing more of Alex that he submit.

Alex was twitchy at first. It had always taken some time for him to flow into the massage. There was nothing sexual about the way Walter touched him. There was instead the offer of comfort, of acceptance, of love as his lotioned hands found the hardened muscles, broke the tight knots, soothed away the tension that had accumulated over the last few days.

Walter carefully worked on the calloused stump, knowing from feeling the jumping nerves under the skin that the phantom pains had made themselves part of Alex's life too often of late.

Gradually, Alex relaxed. To Walter's pleasure, he slipped into sleep.

Walter, however, continued his massage until he had finished with Alex's feet, smiling when, although sleeping, Alex sighed loudly. His feet were a particular Alex erogenous zone.

When done, Walter covered Alex with the thick bathrobe he had found in the bathroom, wrapped another around himself and sat in the chair by the bedside, looking at this man who never seemed to fully accept that he could be worth loving.

And he was never quite sure if what Alex doubted was his ability to love, or Walter's to love him. Surely, after all this time, Alex had to be aware that Walter truly cared for him, loved him? 

Damn! But it was frustrating!

Still, Walter chastised himself, he shouldn't have forgotten that Alex was a Fourth One. That he, like Lissa, had trouble with crowds of people. That their nervous systems seemed to short out when with too many people beyond their tolerance levels.

There were times that even her family was too much for Lissa. Dana Scully had called one day to ask Alex why Lissa had begun hiding in her closet. She had just started school and all seemed to be going well. No one was picking on her -- as if anyone would have dared with Domina watching over her youngest sister. She seemed to like her teacher who, having an above-average intelligent child of her own, understood that Lissa needed to be challenged, but not aggressively. She had even made friends with a little boy who, like herself, preferred to sit in a corner reading. So why was she suddenly hiding in a closet?

"Because it's quiet. And dark..." Alex had offered tentatively. "If she's like me, all those people, it's like being hit with colours and noise and light, all at the same time. It's okay in small doses, but when there's so much of it, it's like being bombarded...." Unseen by Scully, he had shrugged.

"Look, all I can tell you is that for me, sometimes as punishment, I was made to sit in a room with nothing in it, all dark. Except that it wasn't punishment. It was soothing. Calming. Relaxing. I could hear myself think."

Scully had thanked him, emptied out a small storage closet and handed it over to Lissa to do with as she pleased. Lissa had asked for a low wattage light, a large sitting cushion and had moved her favourite books into it. The door to the room now bore a sign: Lissa's Cocoon. And no one entered it without her invitation.

Walter sighed. He should have remembered. The de Gamas were warm, welcoming people. Boisterous. Too boisterous for Alex, especially coming this soon after meeting Sebastian. That had worked well because although Sebastian had had family, parents who had loved him, they were both dead. The only relatives Sebastian had left were distant cousins, also academics. Alex had had the time, the quiet to absorb the existence of Sebastian, his presence in his life.

It was, Walter had to admit, a bit unreasonable to expect the same relationship to arise again. The situation was different. This new brother was far too unlike Alex, almost his exact opposite, for them to meld.

Still, contact had been made. And in itself, that was not a bad thing.

Walter reached for his watch. Alex had been sleeping a good half hour. With a smile, Walter got up, went to remove the bathrobe from his lover. "Roll over, Alex. That's it, love. Wake up. Now just roll over. You're only half done."

Alex's eyes peered up at him through lids that seemed too heavy to raise fully. They soon closed, though Walter doubted Alex was more than dozing. The flaccid penis that was slowly turning into a hard erection told him that one part of Alex's body was more aware than the rest of him seemed to be.

Walter avoided that erection until he had paid careful attention to every other part of Alex's body. Only when he moved his hands up to work on Alex's inner thighs did he change the massage from one of ease to one of arousal. Alex's hips jerked as his fingertips travelled the sensitive areas of Alex's groin. After nearly three years of loving this body, Walter knew all the secret places that only intensified his lover's arousal.

And Alex lay accepting his lover's ministrations, as still as he could keep. Until Walter's mouth closed, hot and wet, around his throbbing erection. Until with just a few experienced, perfectly pressured sucks, Alex's body responded. 

Walter, his mouth still shiny with his lover's come, looked up to see why Alex's usual cry of completion had been muted. Discovered that Alex has stifled the cry with the back of his arm.

Walter shook his head. So they were back to that, were they: Alex trying to hide the pleasure he had felt because he had been trained that *his* orgasm was not of primary importance. That whether or not he came meant nothing as long as the man or men he was with had had their orgasms. That their pleasure was paramount.

This time, after covering Alex, Walter took the phone into the bathroom, closed the door. The order he had placed even before leaving for the hotel soon arrived. A discreet knock, a hefty tip and the short table on well-oiled wheels went into the bathroom. There he turned on the faucets in the huge tub that also served as jacuzzi. When he was happy with the temperature, the quantity of water, he went to rouse Alex.

"Wha..." Alex was reluctant to wake. Walter placed his finger on Alex's mouth, reminding him that he wasn't to speak. Alex nodded and allowed himself to be helped off the bed, into the bathroom. There, following Walter's directions, he gingerly slid into the hot tub, sat forward, allowing space for Walter behind him.

Walter pulled Alex back against his chest, settled his head on his shoulder and turned on the jets. They sat there, enjoying the heat of the water, the pressure of it as it shot against them, the pleasure of just sitting there in silence.

Now and then, Walter wiped his hand on a towel he had placed on the shelf by the tub, reached over to the food on the short table. One by one the canapes disappeared, as did the wine. Walter never allowed Alex to do more than open his mouth to chew or swallow. Now and then, Walter reached up and turned on the hot water to keep the temperature at a reasonable level, the overflow quickly draining away.

At one point, Alex shifted so that he could reach the side of Walter's face, throat with his mouth. The cat licks, small nips grew more demanding until Walter turned his head so that their mouths met, held. They tasted of the spices that flavoured the food, the light dryness of the wine. And each other.

When he pulled away, Walter checked out Alex's eyes. Dark. Heavy. Erotic. 

Yes, thought Walter, feeling a little thrill that his care was drawing Alex out of those bleak places his spirit could inhabit.

He turned off the jets, placed his hands on the sides of the tub and heaved himself out of the water. Alex never took his eyes off him. 

Eyes on Alex, he quickly dried his body before offering Alex a hand to get out of the tub. Standing on the bathmat, ripples of water descending his heat-flushed body, Alex stood while Walter gently towelled him dry.

Another kiss. This one, of promised pleasures.

Alex once more allowed himself to be led into the bedroom. Walter pulled the bathsheets off the bed, tossed them onto the chair. He pulled Alex, now wearing the seductive hint of a smile that always heated his lover up a notch, into his arms. This kiss lit fires in both of them.

The lovemaking that took place on that huge bed in a hotel in Venice was the kind that usually occurred on stormy winter days in Newport, when the house was warmly heated, scented with smell of burning apple wood. When they were snowed in with nowhere to go, no work to be done. When time stood still and all they had to do was rediscover each other and their love.

Unhurriedly.

Languorously.

Playfully.

Without fear of interruption.

Without needing to keep an eye on the clock.

Without fearing to wake a neighbour, Sebastian, anyone up.

When Walter realized that he had needed this time out, by themselves, as much for himself as for Alex.

This time, Alex did nothing to mute the cry that expressed his complete capitulation, laughed to hear Walter's as loud as his own.

They dropped off to sleep, arms wrapped around each other, barely having been able to pull up the covers.

                         ++++

  ----------

Walter slowly stretched, enjoying the feel of well-loved muscles pulling, of joints loosening. He felt sated from the tip of his toes to the top of his head and sighed loudly at the pleasure.

He opened his eyes to find Alex, propped up on his left side, stump supporting the weight of his upper body, watching him. The cat eyes were clearer than they had been that morning though there were some clouds still hanging in them. Walter returned the smile he saw beginning not just in the eyes, but on the face of his lover.

Alex's right hand settled on Walter's chest, the fingers raking through the greying hairs, smoothing them back. There was nothing sexual about the gesture, more by way of a tactile connection between them. Walter raised a hand to Alex's face, brushed the back of his fingers along the jaw, across the cheek, down the throat to come up under the chin. It was a touch that usually had Alex purring, especially after sex. But now he merely leaned into it slightly, the smile in his eyes growing stronger. But no purr.

So, thought Walter, we're not done yet. 

"I don't understand..." Alex started sleepily, his voice still thick from dozing after their love-making.

"What don't you understand?"

Alex dropped his head, eyes no longer meeting Walter's. He gave a small, uncertain shake of his head.

"What, Alex?" Walter lay his hand on his lover's shoulder and rubbed it.

"Why..." He looked up, decision made. "Walter, why do you love me?"

Walter opened his mouth to make some quip, then stopped himself. Alex was serious. He was asking for an explanation that, even when Scully had asked him, Walter had brushed off, not really answering. Maybe this was the time to do so. 

Reaching behind him, Walter pulled down a pillow, propped his head up on it and took a good look at the man with whom he had been sharing his bed, his life. "Other than I do?"

Alex pulled his hand back but Walter caught hold of it, "Sorry, Alex. I'm not that good with words. Especially in trying to put into words, something as important as the way I feel about you. Give me a minute, okay?"

Alex relaxed his hand and waited.

Walter balanced his hand against Alex's, palm to palm, as though measuring one against the other. His palm was wider than Alex's, longer. The fingers were blunt compared to Alex's narrower, longer ones. The hand of a man descended from European peasant stock balancing that of a man whose original was European scientific aristocracy.

Walter folded his fingers against that hand. Alex looked from their hands to Walter, slowly folded his.

"Who do you think I should love, Alex? Sebastian? Mass?"

"Would make more sense," admitted Alex. 

"Because...?"

Alex stared at their joined hands. "Well, to begin with, neither of them killed you."

"True. And I can't say that I've forgotten. You don't exactly forget something like that." He tightened his grip on Alex, drawing their hands to his cheek, as if to keep Alex from bolting. 

"I didn't know what else to do." Alex's calm tones belied the sudden despair in his eyes. "They ordered me to test out the nano program on you. Then to kill you. And they were watching. They weren't particularly happy with me just then. If I hadn't..."

"I know," Walter interrupted. "When we were working together to find Mulder, you explained you did it to save me. To keep me alive. I will admit that I would have preferred your finding a different way to do so, but," he shrugged, accepting, "you had others to keep satisfied, orders to find your way around. And I believed you. I still do. Because I'm here, alive, and the others are dead." 

Except Walter wasn't sure that Alex believed *him*. They had never really spoken about that event beyond the day that Alex Krycek had felt it necessary to explain to the man he was working with why he had killed him. And that only because of some documentation that had fallen into their hands.

"And it *is* in the past, Alex," Walter put as much conviction into his voice as he could, "where it belongs." 

"It is?" Alex's eyes searched his face, as though he needed some reassurance.

"Yes." 

Whatever forgiveness Alex needed to hear in his voice must have been there. "Thank you," he whispered, his eyes relieved.

"Now, as for Sebastian...and Mass. Yes, they look like you, but they're not you, Alex. What attracts me to you is more than your looks, you know." With the index finger of his free hand, Walter traced the slightly opened lips of his lover. 

"Not that they're not a consideration. You may have noticed," he tried to lighten the tone of this discussion, "that I do like looking at you. 

"And," Walter's embarrassment took him by surprise, "our sex life is great. Well...it is...from my stand-point...and it seems to me...well, you seem to enjoy it, too." Walter raised his eyebrows, silently looking for some reassurance.

Alex nodded, face getting a light flush. "Walter, I've never pretended anything with you. Haven't had to. Even when all you do is sleep against me..."

"It's called cuddling, Alex," Walter smiled gently.

"Whatever. I enjoy...I love what we do in bed. And what we do out of it," he added with a hint of a shy smile.

Walter's smile was more confident.

"As for the rest of it," Walter reached up with his free hand to cup Alex's face. "There are so many different facets to love, Alex. And you satisfy so many of them." 

Alex met his eyes, almost disbelieving. Still needing reassurance. And hoping he would get it. 

Walter brought their joined hands to rest against his chest. His ex-wife, Sharon, had often accused him of not sharing himself with her, his thoughts, his feelings. And it had cost him his marriage. For some time after, he had felt unloveable, a failure in matters of the heart. Until Alex. He wasn't going to let his reticence, his up-bringing that emotions and talking about them was unmanly, cost him this relationship.

Still, it wasn't easy. He often hunted for the right words.

"I need..." He sighed. "I need to be needed, Alex. And you need me. For more than chasing the nightmares away. To remind you that, flaws and all, you are human. And all that goes with that. 

"And I need you, too." Alex looked startled, as though this was news to him. Walter wondered if they shouldn't have had this conversation months ago. "Yes, I do."

Walter moved awkwardly on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable spot, trying to put awkward thoughts into words.

"You're not the only one with moods, Alex. Because, let's be honest here, I have them, too." He looked at Alex, ruefully. "That's one of the things Sharon was very explicit about when she explained why she was leaving me. And when I get moody, like you, I stop talking." He grimaced. "I find it hard to explain the things that consume me."

Alex, he noticed, did not contradict him. With more courage than he had had to find in a long time, he continued.

"Maybe because we're both men, you don't feel the need to understand the 'motivation' for my behaviour. Maybe it's because we've both walked some of the same ground that I find I don't need to explain myself to you. You understand why I need to get drunk around Memorial Day. And why I don't want to talk about it."

Alex finally spoke. "That doesn't stop you from asking me what's bothering me." He shifted his body so that his left shoulder bore his weight rather than his stump.

Walter scowled. "Yeah, well, you do tend to take the silent bit to new extremes. And you have to admit that you sometimes need to talk about things, Alex."

Alex didn't seem to be anxious to concede that point.

"And we have other things in common. We've both done things that we now regret, but that we didn't have many options to do differently back then. And we've both lived through them. We've come out on the other side, not better men, but certainly different ones. Both of us have survived where others haven't."

Walter shifted so that he could see Alex better. Alex rested his chin on Walter's collarbone, eyes focused on his lover's face.

"As for other reasons." Walter was beginning to feel more easy with the direction of this talk. "You and I have similar feelings about politics, about religion. About fidelity. Our habits merge without too many problems. You're neat. I know it sounds stupid, but messiness drives me up the wall."

"Really." Alex tried to sound surprised by that admission. The loving grin on his face made it a lie. 

Walter ignored his lover's reaction. 

"We can discuss our opinions without coming to blows. We meet in a comfortable middle ground and it makes for a comfortable life together. And comfort is important. I'm not twenty years old, Alex. Neither," he added with a grin, "are you. Doesn't mean that passion isn't important: it is. It's just that, if we're both honest enough, we'll admit that passion is easier on the bones in a comfortable bed."

"Does this mean you don't want to do it on the couch any more? Or the table?" There was laughter in the voice if not on the face.

Walter raised his head, managed, barely, to stroke his mouth over the one hinting at a pout. Alex lifted his chin up to allow his mouth to be taken.

"Could we eliminate the wood pile?" Walter settled his head on the pillow, pleased to see that the clouds were lifting from Alex's eyes. "I was still finding splinters two days later."

His lover's sigh sounded very put-upon, but his smile was a tease. "Okay. But I'm not giving up half-time quickies. They're the only way I can get through one of those so-called football games of yours."

Walter laughed. "And I *like* you, Alex. I really do. I like all sorts of things about you. Your sense of humour, especially of the ironic. Your relationship with Lissa and her sisters. With Scully. Which I know wasn't easy for both of you." He lightened up. This was getting into darker territory than he wanted to enter. "I like it that you stepped in to help with the bar so I can go off to Boston to play at being a teacher. 

"I like the fact that I miss you when you're not around."

"Yeah?" Alex appeared surprised at that revelation. "I thought," he offered, hesitantly, "that was only me."

Walter shook his head. 

They looked at each other, sharing a silent moment of communication.

"Not," continued Walter, "that you're perfect, not by a long shot. 'Cause there are things you do that annoy me, just like I'm sure there are things I do that annoy you. But I think they're things we can both live with."

"What do I do that drives you crazy?" Alex's body was completely relaxed against Walter's. Like a cat's, once more reassured of his place by the fire. 

Walter shuddered dramatically. "You put maple syrup on potato chips."

Alex's eyebrows disappeared under his hair. "Well, I could understand that reaction if the chips were flavoured, but they're plain. What else?"

"Once, just once, I would like to play a game of chess with you where you follow the normal rules."

"No, you wouldn't. You'd be bored stiff. You'd probably accuse me of trying to throw the game."

Walter raised their hands to his cheek. "Yeah, probably." He looked at Alex whose smile was more of a satisfied smirk. "So while we're clearing the air about this, what do I do that drives you crazy?" 

"Really?"

"Really."

"You set your chess pieces in exactly the centre of the square."

"Heh?"

"When you move a piece, you set it down so that it is dead centre in the square. I bet if I took out a ruler, you wouldn't be off by more than a millimetre."

"This drives you nuts?"

Alex nodded. "I can put up with the shoes exactly side by side. The shirts hanging all together, the suits, the slacks, the jeans, all in their place, the books in perfect alphabetical order, but the chess pieces...I don't know why, but once, could you just lay a piece down over the edge of the square?"

Walter grimaced at the obsessive picture Alex had drawn of his neatness. "I'll see what I can do about that. What else?"

"Fishing."

"Fishing? What's wrong with fishing?"

Alex grew serious, his voice wary. "Nothing. You love fishing. It relaxes you. It's good for you. And I enjoy going with you, but I would rather sit on the bank watching you, or reading, or sleeping. Anything but join you in that water. Shit, Walter, the streams you like to fish in are always icy cold. I don't get a kick out of freezing my balls off. On the other hand," he purred, eyes promising, "I don't mind warming yours up after you come out. I just don't like mine in the same state."

Walter sighed dramatically, eyes shining. "See, I told you, you aren't perfect. Okay. I'll freeze my balls off and leave you to 'unfreeze' them."

Alex passed his mouth across Walter's in thanks. Walter opened his mouth and captured a bottom lip as it stroked along his. He bit down hard enough to keep the lip from moving then sucked the small pain away.

The crisis, thought Walter, was over. He would remember to pay attention to the warning signs from now on. He promised himself never to allow a situation to deteriorate to the point that Alex thought Walter didn't want him any more. 

When Alex finally released his mouth, Walter opened his eyes. "So, Alex, my turn. Why do you love me?"

Alex moved so that his head rested next to Walter's on the pillow. He drew their still joined hands to his chin.

"Because whenever you look at me, I know that you're seeing me. Not just my body.

"You're right about the sex. It is good. The best I've ever had." Walter raised an eyebrow at that. "No, it is the best. Because when you touch my body, you care about how I feel. What I feel. Walter, I know what a fuck is, and even when we do it fast and rough, it's never that. I'm always more than a hole with you. And your touch always gives me pleasure, even when all we do is sleep with our arms around each other. And that's something no one else has ever given me. Thank you."

"Alex..." Walter found he had no words.

Alex's smile softened. "As for the rest of it, it's like you said. But more than that, for me, you were right: you make me feel human." Walter raised his head, ready to protest. "Yes, I know," Alex beat him to it, using a tone of voice that Walter recognized as his, "I may be a clone but that doesn't make me less human than the next guy." 

Alex's face was intense, moving Walter so that his heart ached with fullness, as he said, "But only you can make me feel that. Believe that." Alex carried their hands to his lips. He passed his mouth over and over Walter's tightly holding fingers. "That I can love. That someone can love me.

"Only you, Walter."

                              ****

"Funny, isn't it, how water always looks different by moonlight."

Alex looked over his shoulder at Mass, who was slouching against the French doors that opened off the studio. He was leaning on the railing of the balcony, looking out at the canal and the soft lights that came from the other palazzi near-by. 

Mass took a step onto the balcony as Alex straightened. This was their last night here in Venice, in Europe for that matter. Tomorrow, Alex and his lover would be flying home. Sebastian was also going home the next day. Before they left, Mass wanted time alone with Alex, a wish that had been denied him until now.

Alex and Walter had returned after having spent twenty-four hours away, to announce that they needed to return to their responsibilities in America. 

The Alex who had left and the one who had returned were not the same man. The first had been withdrawn, tight, silent; the other, less tense, happier, more content. Mass hadn't been certain of that first Alex, was afraid of doing something that would return him to the body of this brother in front of him, eyeing him warily.

"Please," said Mass, "stay. A few minutes. I would like us to talk together."

Alex eyed the open door, made a decision and rested a hip against the wrought-iron railing. 

Mass smiled at him, came closer. He reached up to touch Alex's face, allowing him time to pull away. "I know. You don't like being touched. At least, not by anyone other than Walter. But, please. I am an artist. I see with my hands. And we both know that we may never again be this close together. Please?"

Alex gave a slow, considered dip of his head. 

As they talked, Alex gradually grew used to Mass's fingers tracing his features. Mass waited until he was certain Alex had accepted this "invasion" before he began using his hands to stroke Alex's neck, his shoulders. Like a blind man, he etched what he touched into his memory.

"You are happy to be going home." It wasn't a question, rather a comment. "I am happy that I met you, Alex. Fratellino mio. My baby brother."

Alex's eyebrows went up. It was obvious that he hadn't thought of himself that way. Mass smiled again.

"Yes. The baby. That is what you are. Walter explained to me all about this Fourth One business." Mass shrugged, very expressively. "As if that mattered to me. What does matter is that you are the baby."

"Why?" 

Ah, curiosity, thought Mass, a fine bait. "In Italy, family is important. You would have to be dead not to notice how important it is in this family. We live in each other's pockets, meddle in each other's lives."

"Care for each other." Alex offered his understanding.

"Yes. The baby is a special child. Spoiled beyond belief. And you are more than just the baby. You are the baby of four, born at the same time. Here, such a baby would have every wish granted..." He felt Alex stiffen under his touch. He kept on anyway. "Be catered to. Carried everywhere. He probably would have to be taught to walk before the first day of school."

His hands caught Alex's face, holding firmly but not tightly. "You should have been treated with love. Cared for. Spoiled. My brother. Fratellino mio." His voice harshened. "Instead you were treated as a thing. By men who were lower than the lowest creatures on this earth. Who weren't fit to kiss the ground you walk on."

Mass kept his eyes focused on Alex's, letting loose the full force of his personality, determinedly holding him in place. "Walter tells me that the men who maltreated you are dead. Is this so?"

"Yes." Alex tried to move his eyes from Mass's but Mass wouldn't release him.

"All of them?"

"Yes. All the ones that mattered."

Mass nodded. "And did they die by your hand?"

"Some of them."

"Did you enjoy killing them?"

"Emotion," Alex sounded surprised to find himself explaining, "is not a good thing for an assassin to have. It gets in the way of survival."

Mass nodded once. "Then satisfaction. Did it give you some satisfaction?"

Alex was silent for a moment, as though he had to think about this. Then, "Yes." Said softly but firmly.

Mass released his hands, let them slide to Alex's shoulders. "Good." He took a deep breath as though preparing himself. "Now then, this man who thought he was God, who created us in his image, he too is dead?"

Alex swallowed. So, thought Mass, too many memories there. He would never go into those again.

"Yes. Walter killed him."

"Pity. I have connections. If he were alive, I would contact them. They would find him. Give him time to regret every second he spent with you."

Alex said nothing, but his jaw unclenched slightly. 

Mass waited a minute or so before continuing. His fingers shaped the muscles that joined shoulders to neck. He would do his brother in clay after he was gone.

"There is something more that must be said. That I must say to you. About that fence at the end of the forest."

"How..." Alex caught himself. "Did Wal..."

"No!" Mass interrupted. "No. No one betrayed you. I was sitting at the studio door. I used to go there to be near Vittorio when he was busy in the studio and would ban everyone from it. I had to be near him. It gave me comfort to sit there, curled up, ear against the door, listening to him mutter and swear. 

"Vittorio," Mass smiled at his memories, "was not a silent artist." 

"You loved him," said Alex.

"Yes. And he loved me." Mass caught a flicker of something that crossed Alex's face, a something that vanished almost as it appeared. "We loved each other, Alex, but we were not lovers. Love, baby brother, takes many forms. Vittorio and I, we loved, as father and child. Not as you love Walter. Nor as you love Sebastian."

Alex opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He closed his mouth.

"I was sitting there, that night, talking in my heart to him, about you. I should have said something when you sat on the steps, but I didn't know what to say to you. Now I do.

"This fence that you think I would have kept trying for, maybe you are right. Vittorio always said I had a head as hard as granite. That there were things I only learnt the hard way. Probably, yes, I would have made for that fence again. But I don't think I would have gotten over it.

"You find me uncomfortable, don't you, Alex? Too loud. Too boisterous. Too different. And I am. I am like a beautiful flower. Colourful. Desired. Arrogant. But take a beautiful flower and leave it out in a storm and it breaks. Throw it against a wall...an electrified fence...and it crumbles. 

"On the other hand, a reed, plain, quiet, almost overlooked, bends, endures the storm, the wall, the fence. May come up tattered," Mass passed his hand along Alex's stump, stopping at the prosthesis, "but it survives. And you, fratellino mio, more than any of us, are a survivor. And that accomplishment is an art in itself."

Mass moved his hands back to Alex's face, to frame the eyes that were suddenly shy.

"Alex. I know that you and I, we will never be the friends that you and Sebastian are, will become. That I and Sebastian may be. But always remember that I love you. You are my brother, my baby brother, and I love you." And he leaned over while Alex was still dumbfounded, kissed him on one cheek, then the other, and once more on the first.

In the background, they could hear Walter calling Alex's name. He would find them soon enough. 

Smiling, Mass stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest. "So. This Walter, you love him?"

"Yes." Alex's voice was firm. Mass liked that.

"And he loves you?"

"Yes." Softer, with a hint of wonder.

"He takes care of you?"

"Yes." Stronger.

"He spoils you?"

"Oh, yes." Alex's smile was a match for the one Mass was wearing.

"How does he spoil you?"

The nearness of Walter's voice indicated he was probably on the steps leading up to the studio. 

Alex leaned over, brushed his lips on one of Mass's cheeks, then the other, and once more on the first.

"He's given me my brothers." 

* * *

Originally the a meal portion read like a menu. You have Virg to thank that it no longer does.

But, I thought you might like to know what the meal was....

I may not have the order of it correct, but I am including the URL for the site where I filled out this menu, and where the surprisingly easy recipes can be found.

Buono appetito!

(Hope I got that right!)

Oh, almost forgot: no calories in any of this stuff, eh!

Salades:

Insulatona pantesca (pantelleria salad)  
avocado ripieni (stuffed avocado)   
insulata di capesante e procini (scallops and mushroom salad)  
insulata di mare (seafood salad)

Pastas:

tortelloni di melanzane e zucchini (aubergine and zucchini tortellini)  
peperoni ripieni di pasta (macaroni stuffed peppers)  
spaghetti aglio olio e peperoncino (spaghetti with garlic, olive oil, chili peppers)  
tagliolini gratinati con filetti di sogliola (tagliolini au gratin with sole)

Meat and Fish:

abbacchio alla cacciatora (baby lamb)  
spezzatino di manzo e fungi (beef and mushroom stew)  
ossibuchi alla milanese (veal shank)  
dorso di coniglio al fenocchio selvatico (saddle of rabbit with wild fennel)  
pollo alla marengo (chicken marengo)  
spezzatino di pesce con fricando alla ronognola (fish stew)  
scampi (scampi)  
orata al cartoccio (sea bass)

PLUS  
two rice dishes: suppli di riso alla romano, risotto al radicchio  
two gnocchi .one made from potatoes, the other from semolina  
two vegetable dishes: insulata di capodanno (artichokes)  
                                insulata di verdure cotte (roasted vegetables)

Desserts....definitely NO calories in any of these.....  
baba al rhum  
castagnaccio (chestnut cake)  
torta di ricotta e frutta (fruit and ricotta cheese cake)  
crostata di albicocche (apricot tarte.....my favourite!)  
zabaglione

Of course all the appropriate wines were served with the meal, champagne with dessert....

URL for the recipes:

http://www.mangiarebene.net/accademia/

BTW:

Prozia means grand-aunt  
Zia means aunt  
Cugino means cousin

But you all knew that.

 

* * *

 

Title: AND NOW FOR THE LAST  
Series: Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind  
Author: Josan, aided and abetted by Virgule Vaughan  
Betas: Skif and her virtual blue pencil. Karen-Leigh, who is to "blame" for these sequels by sending me all those Nick Lea tapes. I claim any inaccuracies...none of them are anyone else's fault.  
Date: November, 2000  
Summary: If you've read the first story and then you read the title of this one, you know what it's about.  
Pairing: Sk/K  
Rating: PG...  
Archive: Will be sent to RatB, but the rest of you who have asked can also take, if you want.  
Comments: OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try   
DISCLAIMER: Skinner and the original Krycek are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but the others belong to me.  
DEDICATION: With thanks, to the people who voted for my stories in the WIRERIMS Awards.

* * *

"Sebastian! Over here!"

Sebastian looked over the heads of people waiting for the new arrivals and spotted Alex's hand, waving in the air. He dropped one of his bags, waved back. Eyes on the spot, he worked his way through the crowd around the luggage carousel and finally broke free.

Alex was waiting by the wall, grinning at him.

Sebastian came up to him, dropped both pieces of luggage, opened up his arms and pulled Alex into them. After only the merest hint of stiffening, Alex relaxed, put his arms around Sebastian, returned the hug and then pulled back.

"No. Please, Alex. Give me a moment more."

And Alex allowed Sebastian to hold him close, his arms around his brother until Sebastian released him. He looked Alex over, from head to foot and back up again. "You look like yourself."

Alex laughed. "Come on. Walter's at home, preparing supper." He bent to grab hold of one of the luggage handles but Sebastian got there first. "Sebastian," he groaned, "let me have one of those."

Sebastian thought about refusing but something in Alex's eyes made him hand one over, the lighter of the two. Alex knew what he was doing, sighed, but said nothing more about it. They chatted about the flight over, the movie, the horrible child who had spent the entire commute from New York to Boston screaming that he didn't want to go home.

They stowed the luggage in the back of the black Explorer, set out for the house Walter and Alex were renting in Boston for the year that Walter had accepted to teach at Tufts.

They were at a red light when Alex became aware of the sappy grin on Sebastian's face as he watched him drive. "What?"

Sebastian just shook his head. But at the next red light, he leaned over, grabbed Alex by the back of the head, hauled him over and planted a loud, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Shit, Sebastian," Alex wiped his face with the back of his hand, ignoring the honk that informed him that the light had changed colour. "You've been spending too much time with Mass."

"Don't you ever scare us like that again, understand?" Sebastian gave Alex's shoulder a punch that made his steering wobble for a second.

"Yeah," Alex grinned at his brother, enjoying the twinge of ache in his arm. The cars behind him had finally decided to pass him rather than wait for him to move.

He took the time to really look Sebastian over. "So how are you doing?"

Sebastian moved so that he could rest his head against the cold window. December in Boston was nothing like December in Leeds. He'd never been in the States at this time of year before. "Fine. I'm doing fine."

Alex gave him a scrutinizing look.

"No, Alex, really. I've learnt the hard way that a man my age should avoid young, ambitious female students. That I, like too many other solitary men, am susceptible to flattery. And infatuation. And that, after the initial shock, I realized I had not really been in love." He cocked an eyebrow at his brother. "That in fact, it was probably your fault."

"*My* fault? How the hell is it my fault that you got hot and bothered over a twenty year old co-ed who only wanted to have an affair with some professor? Not even one in her field."

"Well," conceded Sebastian, "yours and Walter's. If I hadn't had the example of a happy, loving couple to make me realize just how lonely I was..."

Alex chuckled. "Walter's going to love hearing that." He looked over, noticing a certain aura of happiness around his brother. "So, what's new? Or should I say, who?"

Sebastian grinned. He couldn't hide secrets from Alex: they were too connected. "Remember Malcolm Crawford? I introduced him to you the last time you visited, at the Dean's luncheon."

Alex thought a moment. "The geeky Medievalist? The one who was mooning over you while you only had eyes for the hussy?"

Sebastian sat properly in his seat, crossed his arms over his chest. Huffed, "Malcolm is not geeky."

Alex just smiled. "How old is he? He's got to be close to our age."

"He's ten years younger. It's the grey hair that makes people think he's older. And don't you dare lecture me about the age difference: you and Walter are twelve years apart."

"So why isn't he here with you?" Alex turned down a quiet street near the University.

"His grandmother isn't well. Besides, he thought there would be enough tension with the purpose of this visit without throwing another unknown into the equation."

Because, though it was nearing Christmas, though Mass would be joining them in a day or so, the purpose of this visit was more than nerve-racking.

The fourth of them had been located.

And he really didn't want to meet with them, or have anything to do with them.

He'd been very insistent on that.

                         ++++

"Sebastian, welcome. How was the flight?" Walter took their coats, hung them up in the closet. The glare he sent Alex was very effective: Alex set down the piece of luggage and shrugged. "I'll show Sebastian up to his room, Alex. Why don't you check on the potatoes?"

"Yeah, sure," Alex groused.

Walter ignored Alex, picked up the piece Alex had brought in. He was expecting something heavier, quirked an eyebrow at Sebastian. "He wanted to carry something. It's not heavy because I didn't pack much into it. Going home, I expect it to be filled with books."

They tossed the cases on the bed and Walter pointed out the small ensuite bath.

"He's looking his old self again."

Walter sighed. "Yes, he is. He still tires too easily for me, but the doctor says as long as he doesn't get ill this winter, by next summer he should be a hundred percent."

"And he's chaffing at the bit. I know I would, if I were he. Come to think of it, I am he, aren't I? Walter, he's going to be all right. He's learnt, as we all have, not to ignore a flu."

"If I had been there..."

"Walter! For God's sake!" Sebastian shook his head. "Think about what you're saying. If you had been the one to get ill, you're not going to tell me that you would have tucked yourself into bed any more than Alex did. I mean, I understand your being upset, but it's not as though he died."

Because Alex had nearly died that spring.

Had picked up some stupid flu bug and, being Krycek, had ignored the symptoms until almost too late.

It was the final trip to Tufts that semester for Walter and Alex was joining him for an a week in town. He arrived, feverish, tired, complaining of a headache. He hadn't been feeling well for the last few days, he finally admitted to Walter. Later he also admitted that he hadn't had much experience with illness in his life. He had his share with getting beaten up, shot, knifed, being hung over. But he couldn't remember really being ill apart from the time he'd lost his arm.

Walter sent him to bed with some Tylenol, slept on the couch so that Alex would get a good night's sleep. Except that in the morning, he wasn't able to wake Alex up. An Alex who was burning with a fever of 104.

Dana Scully was the one who contacted Sebastian. It was the first time he had spoken to her. By the time he broke off the connection, he was dragging out the telephone directory, looking up travel agents.

He arrived in Boston 14 hours later, going directly to the hospital. He found Walter in Intensive Care, unshaven, haggard-looking, sitting on a chair by Alex's hospital bed, hands gripping the fingers of an arm laden with tubing.

The flu was not a flu, but pneumonia, the virulent Legionnaire's Disease.

By then Walter had been up over thirty-six hours. Sebastian managed to get him to sleep by ordering a cot to be set up in the room. Something about an English accent worked wonders. He settled Walter, took over the chair by the bed. Holding Alex's hand in one of his, he put in a call to Mass, who had been waiting by the telephone with the other de Gamas.

The next twenty-four hours had been difficult. Mass wasn't able to join them because Prozia Maria-Louisa had had a stroke and was not expected to live. If need be, he would fly over on Sebastian's say-so. Sebastian promised Mass he would be contacted every two hours, if not by himself, then by Walter.

The box arrived first. Fed-Exed directly from Italy. Sebastian shrugged, opened it and read the note written in Mass's distinctive hand. And laughed. He handed the piece of paper torn out of a sketching pad over to Walter who actually managed a smile. He read it aloud to Alex who was unconscious, struggling for breath.

"These boxes of chocolates are not for you. Open them up, leave them in plain sight. Offer to the nurses who come in. Word will get around and you will never have to ring for a nurse. More where those come from if needed.

The family asked me to tell you that they are praying for you, fratellino mio."

Sebastian was not sure what worked. Whether it was the prayers or Walter's tight grip on Alex's hand. By that afternoon the fever began to drop. By evening, Alex had managed to open his eyes, look at them and then fall into a healing sleep.

Sebastian handed Walter some tissues then wiped his own face.

The next day, when the flowers arrived, Alex was alert enough to smile at the bouquet.

"What on earth? Birds of Paradise and bulrushes? Only Mass." But something in Alex's face made Sebastian look at the vase again. There was a message there, one that Mass knew only Alex would be able to read. And appreciate.

That afternoon, he placed a call to Mass who was dealing with the funeral arrangements for Prozia Maria-Louisa. "Yes, they arrived this morning. Did ours get there? They did. Good. Mass...we...yes, he's awake. I think he wants to say something to you. Hang on."

Sebastian placed the phone by Alex's head while Walter lifted his oxygen mask enough so that he could say, in a barely audible voice, "Mass. Love...you...too." And while Mass was still speaking to him, slipped back into sleep.

Alex had spent nearly three weeks in hospital. Sebastian had stayed for two of those then he'd had to return to Leeds. One positive consequence of Alex's illness was the new rapport among the brothers. Sebastian and Mass had gotten along pretty well from the beginning, but things had been difficult between Mass and Alex. Now all three called each other every few weeks just to talk, stayed in weekly contact by e-mail.

In the two years since they'd met, Alex and Sebastian had exchanged visits, each going to stay with the other once. This was to be Mass's first visit and before Alex had gotten ill, it would have been a time of worry for Walter, worry about how Mass's visit would affect Alex. There was none of that now.

Now, all he worried about was how their final brother's refusal to meet with them was going to affect them.

                         ++++

Mass's arrival was louder, more attention getting than Sebastian's had been.

This time Walter and the brothers were waiting for Mass at the International Terminal. There was Customs to go through before Mass was finally released to greet his other family with large cries of pleasure, exuberant hugs for everyone. Dramatic groans at being asked about the trip -- though it couldn't have been all that difficult as Mass took time to say a personal good-bye to each of the stewardesses as they walked by.

The fact that there were three men wearing the same face added to the attraction. There were more than a few double-takes as people walked by them.

Walter kept one eye on Alex, who was smiling though looking just a bit stunned by all the luggage Mass had brought with him.

"Well, it's Christmas," Mass informed them when Walter couldn't resist commenting after they loaded six large pieces, three smaller ones and an oversized portfolio. "One of those is gifts for you from me, another gifts from the family. There's one that's for your Scully and her girls. You said we will be spending some time there."

"You can buy toys in America, Mass," Sebastian pointed out.

"Toys? You told me they were eight years old." Mass glared at Walter.

"Yes, they are. Nearly nine."

"Then they are too old for toys. They are just the right age for beautiful things. Italian things. You can't develop taste too early."

"Of course," agreed Alex, nodding his head in serious support of this brother. Mass just stared at him for a moment and then laughed.

The rest of them were, they discovered as they helped him unpack in another of the spare rooms, what Mass considered to be essentials: enough food for a banquet -- courtesy of the family, a case of paints, another of sketching supplies. And the usual clothes.

Mass wasted no time in making himself at home. As in his living quarters and the studio, pages of sketches began cropping up all over the house. The next day while Alex and Sebastian were out running some errands, Walter found Mass in Alex's office.

Charlie Fables, who had been responsible for getting Walter involved with Tufts in the first place, had found Alex some work that he could do at home. One of the university professors, who had written a book on the history of Russia during its Industrial Revolution, needed someone to read his proofs for him. To see if the work needed revision from a reader's point of view. His eyes were not that good and he tired easily due to his age: he was 85. He and Alex got along well.

Mass was sitting at Alex's desk, just staring in front of him, sketch pad open on the desk. Walter wondered at the intensity of his concentration until he looked over Mass's shoulder to see what he was drawing. On the top of the filing cabinet which Alex could see anytime he cared to look up was a vase with an arrangement of the dried bulrushes that had come with Mass's flowers. They were standing in a vase that was decorated with birds of paradise.

Mass finally realized that Walter was there, He looked up, smiling like someone who had been given a rare gift. Walter had been told the story behind the flowers and the bulrushes. Returning the smile, he bent and planted a Mass-like kiss on the side of Mass's head. Then he left him alone.

                         ++++

Father Abbot sat behind his desk, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, chin on his steepled fingers. "I'm sorry," he said to the four men staring at him with various expressions from the other side of the desk. "Though we are a cloistered order, we do allow family visitations under certain circumstances. We are not the ones denying you access to Brother Morton. Brother Morton is very insistent that he does not want to meet with any of you.

"Our representatives did explain that to your representative," he gestured with a long, thin hand to the only one of them who looked different, "and to your lawyers.

"We understand that you would like to meet with your brother at least once," he meet the glare, the cold look, the obvious distrust of the three who bore some resemblance to Brother Morton straight on, momentarily thankful that he had God on his side, "but that is not his wish.

"Again, I'm sorry that you came for nothing. I will not force one of my brethren to meet with people he does not wish to see. There is nothing I can do."

"Did he at least tell you *why* he wouldn't meet with us?"

Father Abbot dragged his eyes away from the one with the cold stare to the one with the glasses. Though upset, this man looked more reasonable than the other two. Father Abbot sighed. "He really didn't explain. All I know is that he has said something about all of you...I assume he's including himself as he did use the pronoun 'we'... being a slap to the face of God. Beyond that, Brother Morton won't speak."

The one who looked more dramatic than the other two made some comment in Italian under his breath that Father Abbot pretended he didn't understand.

Their representative took over before any of them could do or say anything more. "Alex, Sebastian, Mass."

The three men switched their attentions to the man who addressed them. Father Abbot also turned to the speaker. That tone was not one to ignore.

"Go to the car and wait for me. Please."

The Italian looked as though he was going to argue but caught himself as the one addressed as Alex stood up. He gave Father Abbot a sharp nod, turned and without saying a word -- not that he had even spoken one during this interview -- and left the room.

The rational one stood, offered his hand to Father Abbot who also stood to shake it and followed his brother out.

The Italian, shaking his head, also stood, came to stand in front of Father Abbot. In perfect Latin, he bowed his head, asked for the traditional parting blessing. Father Abbot was surprised to find himself giving it as the man blessed himself. Before leaving, he took the Father's hand, kissed his ring of authority.

Someone, thought Father Abbot, had brought that one up in the old traditions.

He turned to the fourth man who was sitting firmly in his chair. This one was not going anywhere. Father Abbot sighed, took his seat. And waited.

"Perhaps," said Walter Skinner, "I should start by explaining how we tracked down Brother Morton."

"I assume it has something to do with his illness and the time he spent in the hospital."

His visitor nodded. "Ironically, it's because Alex too was ill and spent some time in the same hospital. I won't explain how, because frankly, Father, I don't think you really want to know how, but while checking for blood types in the hospital database, we came across Brother Morton. From there, it wasn't hard to get a DNA test."

Father Abbot shook his head. "The only time since he joined us that Brother Morton goes out of our care."

Walter Skinner smiled. Father Abbot felt the man's sympathy in that smile.

"You were lucky that someone in the research department of the hospital had just returned from South America and had actually some experience with that kind of blood infection. I understand it comes from the sap of a certain plant entering the bloodstream through something as small as a scratch?"

"Yes. An everyday occurrence for a botanist. Especially one like Brother Morton who is forever in his garden, working on his plants when not in actual prayer." 

"Pity that he grew so ill that your own infirmary couldn't handle it."

Father Abbot was not abbot for nothing. He knew where this was going.

"While Brother Morton was in the hospital, certain 'discrepancies' were noted. I was not aware that whipping was part of the Trappists' convention."

Father Abbot wanted badly to glare this man out of his office. Instead he closed his eyes, offered a quick prayer to God. "No," he said, eyes still closed, "you are quite right. Mortification of the flesh is accepted. We fast. We live plainly. But..."

"So we're talking self-flagellation."

Father Abbot opened his eyes, stood to go look out of the window that overlooked the gardens of the monastery. He was thankful that Walter Skinner allowed him his silence. He had a decision to make and he hoped it was going to be the right one.

"Brother Morton," he spoke to the reflection of the man he could see in the pane of glass, "arrived here some twenty-six years ago. We found him in the back gardens, a young man, barely clothed, badly beaten. He was addicted to alcohol, to drugs. He carried no identification on him, but he begged us not to inform the authorities. That his life was at stake.

"Father Abbot at that time was a man who had come to us from the Military. He was used to making quick assessments of people and he made one in this case. The young man was placed in the isolation room of the infirmary. Father Abbot stayed with him through his detoxification. And Brother Morton stayed with us."

He looked over his shoulder. "This is not to mean that Father Abbot did not check to see if he was wanted by the Law, if someone was searching for him. There are notes in the file on Brother Morton that show that Father Abbot contacted several outside sources and that nothing ever turned up."

He came to take his seat again. "Father Abbot placed him under the guidance of Brother Gregory, who was the gardener of the time. Brother Morton has a natural talent with plants that has greatly benefited us. He is a devote follower of our Rules."

"But?" 

"But he is fragile. And he has these periods when he...feels...he has to atone for some sin and that only the abuse of his flesh will satisfy this need for atonement."

He looked at the man watching him. "We do not approve of this behaviour, Mr. Skinner. Fortunately, there are warning signs, but now and then, something happens and there is no warning."

"And may I venture that our attempts to contact him have meant a return of this behaviour?"

"Yes," said Father Abbot, sadly. "We see to it that he is not left alone, but there are times he manages to slip away. He is the most accommodating of men, most of the time, but sometimes..."

"He's stubborn and single-minded. I understand, Father Abbot. Believe me, those are traits he shares with his brothers."

Father Abbot did believe him. The two of them shared a moment of empathy.

"Father, I fully accept that Brother Morton wishes to have no contact with his brothers. Frankly, from what you tell me, he is far better off in your world than he would be in theirs. But if I told you I think I may have a solution to this behaviour problem, that I might be able to show you a way to put an end to it, would you allow me to see him? Here, in your presence?"

Father Abbot thought a moment. "I would have to use my authority to make him come. He will not want to see you any more than he wants to see his brothers."

"Yes, I know. I know that I am asking you to take me on trust. But I can almost guarantee that his brothers will accept his decision. They won't like it, but they will accept it. After today, Brother Morton will never again have to deal with the world outside these walls. But surely, if there is a chance that his mortification be within acceptable limits..."

Father Abbot cleared his mind, and waited. Walter Skinner watched him, not pushing any further.

Father Abbot reached for the old black rotary phone on his desk, dialled three numbers. "Brother Thomas, would you tell Brother Morton that I would like to see him immediately."

                         ++++

The man who lay prostrate on the floor before Father Abbot's desk would have been hard to recognize as Alex's clone, thought Walter.

The man was painfully thin, almost emaciated. His face, for someone who spent so much time outdoors, had no colour. Walter assumed that he always wore a hat of some kind when he worked in the gardens. 

And he was clean shaven. Head completely bare of any hair.

If it had not been for the green eyes, sunk in the skeletal face, he would never have guessed who this man was.

It was obvious that Brother Morton's prostration was not the accepted norm for behaviour in Father Abbot's presence. Walter had caught the exasperated sigh the abbot had not been able to prevent.

"This man," Walter was surprised by the Father's authoritative voice, "has my permission to speak with you. You will listen to him. You will answer him."

From the way Father Abbot resumed his original position, chin on steepled fingers, Walter understood that the field was his.

Slowly he stood, went to crouch by the man, face down, arms spread out as if in crucifixion. "How old are you, Brother Morton?"

The question took the two men by surprise. Brother Morton raised his head slightly so that his mouth was no longer against the floor. "I don't know."

"You're 44 years old, Brother Morton. You were born..." 

Brother Morton flinched as though he had been hit. Walter sighed.

"You were born in 1964. One of a set of quadruplets who were soon split up and placed in different homes."

Brother Morton shook his head, moaned softly, his face back on the floor.

"Pay attention to me," snapped Walter, in his best Marine tone. Brother Morton trembled.

"Someone, sometime in your life told you you were not human. That you were a clone. Is this right?"

Father Abbot sat very still in his chair, focused his attention on the man speaking. 

Brother Morton's reaction was more violent. It was almost as though he were having a fit. 

Walter grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him up so that they were face to face.

"Is this right, Brother Morton?" Every word was clipped out through gritted teeth. 

The tone worked magic on Brother Morton. He didn't meet his interrogator's eyes, but his body quietened. He gave a very small nod.

"I want you to use the brains God gave you, Brother Morton. I want you to think about that. How old were you when some idiot told you that fool's story?"

"I don't know!" Brother Morton's anguish was difficult to miss. "I told you that I didn't know how old I was!"

"Think! Were you an infant? A child? A teenager?"

It took a few moments but finally some words made their way out over Brother Morton's quivering lips. "I think I would have been about nine. Maybe ten."

"Good. That would have made it in the early seventies. Tell me, Brother Morton. You're a scientist. I know that you're cloistered here, but surely you are not denied scientific journals."

"No." Father Abbot interjected. "Brother Morton is very up to date on the latest developments in his field. It is a necessity for the betterment of the monastery."

"So," Walter softened his voice, "you know about cloning experiments. Tell me, Brother Morton, when were the first successful experiments in cloning done?"

There was no answer. Brother Morton's eyes seemed to fill his face.

"In the sixties? The seventies? Weren't the first successful ones done in the nineties, Brother Morton? With sheep? And wasn't that only possible then because of the advancements in the science of genetics *after* the work done on DNA?"

Brother Morton still didn't react, but Walter somehow thought that the brain he shared with his brothers was working behind the stunned eyes.

"Sheep, Brother Morton. Not humans. You and your brothers are the product of a multiple birth. These things existed, if you remember, long before invitro fertilization. Rare. Not common. But it happened. In the way your God would have approved. A man and a woman getting together, having sex, procreating. Your mother unfortunately died soon after you were born. Your father sadly had no interest in his sons. You were farmed out to other families. I can only assume that, like Alex, you were passed on to someone who should never have been given a child. I'm sorry for that."

Walter watched as the story he spun brought if not solace, that at least thread that could be woven into some comfort.

"Brother Morton, who told you that you were a clone?"

Slowly, Brother Morton pulled his legs under him so that he knelt, Walter's hands still holding onto his shoulders. "A man came to the house. He was there because the people who had custody of me had told him I was unstable. He looked like me. Told me that he was my creator." Brother Morton's anxious eyes met Walter's. "Only God is the Creator."

"Only God," agreed Walter.

His calm tone seemed to soothe something in Brother Morton. The man sighed deeply, several times, as if ridding his body of some poison air.

"He said things...things..."

"That upset you. I understand."

"He called me 'Clone Two' all the time he was there. While he made me do all sorts of tests. While he ... examined me."

"Brother," Walter kept his voice as even as he could, "did he rape you?" And saw the answer in the panic that rose in the man's eyes. "Shhh, it's okay." He pulled him into his arms, offering him the same comfort he offered Alex when he had nightmares. Without thinking, he began the rhyme that eased Alex and Lissa, even Sebastian.

It was several minutes before Brother Morton calmed. 

While Father Abbot prayed.

"Brother Morton, I want you to listen to me. The man who hurt you is dead. He was Evil. He lied to you. I will swear it on any Bible you choose. You are not a clone. Not you. Not any of your brothers. You are not a slap to the face of your God. You have nothing to atone to your God for, other than the usual sins humans commit."

He carefully raised the tear-streaked face. Even Father Abbot could see the beginning of hope on that face.

"If you feel you must atone, well, atone for your brothers. Unlike you, they are sinful men. And they need your prayers. One of them is a profligate. One was trained to kill. I don't know what your personal beliefs are on the matter, but two of them are in homosexual relationships. They need your prayers, Brother Morton. But," and here Walter's voice grew very stern, "*only* prayers. Do you understand? 

"Your God is a very forgiving one, but I doubt that He would be pleased with your behaviour when you now know there is no basis for it." 

                         ++++

Father Abbot waited until the door closed to look at the man who suddenly deflated in the chair he had taken. "I forget," he said slowly, "how much Evil there truly is in this world." 

His visitor rubbed his face, as though trying to wake himself up. "And how much damage it does."

"I may be judging too early," said Father Abbot, "but I think that some of that has been repaired today. Thank you."

Walter Skinner looked at him wearily. "You will take care of him?"

"He is one of ours. Much loved. We will see to him. And now that you have given me a key, I think he will be happier as well."

Walter Skinner stood up, took out a small leather case and from it, a card. "This is the legal firm that handles my affairs. Should he need anything, I expect you to contact them. They know how to get in touch with any of us. And, if you deem it acceptable, maybe once in a while, just a note to tell us how he is doing?"

Father Abbot took the embossed card. They both knew that the only time this firm would be contacted would be at Brother Morton's death.

                         ++++

Walter stepped out into the winter light and looked at the three brothers who were waiting for him at the car. Mass, of course, had a sketch pad in hand, hand busily drawing the architecture, the surroundings of the monastery that housed the fourth of them. Ironically, in the same State, so close to Alex and Walter.

Alex was slouched, back against the side of the hood, feet crossed at ankles, eyes checking out the landscape all the while talking to Sebastian who was seated in the car, long legs visible under the open door, leaning head out the rolled down window.

Alex saw him first. His coming to his feet alerted Sebastian, who slowly joined him. Mass put the pad down on the roof of the car, shoved his charcoal into his pocket.

Walter shrugged as he approached them. "Sorry. I couldn't get him to change his mind. He says he'll pray for all of you."

"He's all right?" asked Mass.

"You saw him?" Sebastian jumped in. 

Alex said nothing. 

"Yes," answered Walter.

Alex casually put his arm around Walter's waist, silently offering support and comfort. Whatever had happened hadn't been easy. He wondered if Walter would ever tell him. Wondered if he wanted to know. 

"He's all right." Walter leaned into Alex's warmth. "He's found his place, like you've all found yours. He's requested that there be no further contact and I've agreed to that in all your names. Father Abbot has promised to get in touch should he ever need anything."

There was silence while the brothers thought about that. 

Alex gave Walter a small squeeze, giving him his approval.

Sebastian was the first to speak. "Well, we can only respect his wishes. At least we know where he is. That he's alive. Well?"

Walter nodded.

"And well cared for?"

Again Walter nodded.

"But a monk!" Mass shook his head in disgust.

"He's promised to pray especially for you, Mass. That you find peace in life." Walter could produce a small smile at Mass's grunt of disgust.

"Yes, well, that's a priest for you. They want to take all the joy out of life."

And, like that, Brother Morton's decision was accepted.

                         ++++

 

* * *

 

Title: EPILOGUE: THE CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN  
Series: Close Encounters of the Fourth Kind  
Author: Josan, aided and abetted by Virgule Vaughan  
Betas: Skif and her virtual blue pencil. Karen-Leigh, who is to "blame" for these sequels by sending me all those Nick Lea tapes. I claim any inaccuracies...none of them are anyone else's fault.  
Date: November, 2000  
Summary: If you've read the first story and then you read the title of this one, you know what it's about.  
Pairing: Sk/K   
Rating: PG...  
Archive: Will be sent to RatB, but the rest of you who have asked can also take, if you want.  
Comments: OR, if you're getting bounced due to the anti-spam filter my server has added, try   
DISCLAIMER: Skinner and the original Krycek are the property of CC, Fox and 1013, but the others belong to me.   
DEDICATION: To Virgule Vaughan, who wanted a story for for the picture. You'll know which one when you read it.

* * *

Walter was greeted with a tight hug from Dana Scully as behind her the girls squealed, called out "Hello, Uncle Walter!" and rushed out to meet the others.

Mass was the only one getting out of the car, looking around him like a child.

"Mass, come meet everyone." Walter grinned at Dana who was staring, mouth partially open, at this version of Alex. "Sebastian and Alex are following in the Explorer. There was too much baggage to take just one vehicle."

Mass was wearing those thigh-high boots of his, jeans under them and a thick, beautifully knitted, colourfully patterned sweater that some cousin had made just for him. His hair was down. Grinning delightedly at all the females watching him, he strolled up to the steps, sexuality turned up to full.

It was, thought Walter, not as though Mass were doing it on purpose; that sensuousness was as natural to him as breathing. He doubted that Mass would be able to turn it off even if he wanted to. 

Walter sighed.

"Dana Scully. Massimiliano de Gama."

With old world courtesy, Mass bowed, took Dana's hand in his, brought it to his lips. "No one told me what a beautiful woman you are, Donna Scully. Intelligent. Determined. Resourceful. But they forgot to mention your beauty." And he turned her hand so that he could place a kiss in her palm.

Walter had never really seen Dana Scully speechless before. 

"And these are the equally beautiful Scully sisters?"

Walter settled against the front stoop railing and watched as Mass wrapped three little girls around his finger as he had so smoothly done with their mother: bowing to each of them, calling them "Signorina", kissing the backs of their hands, all the while the girls giggled.

The only one who didn't look impressed was Lissa, who, as usual, watched from the sideline.

When Mass moved towards her, Dana finally unfroze. "No. It's okay," said Walter, holding her back. "He's learning."

About four feet from Lissa, Mass stopped, crouched so that they were eye to eye. He made no move to touch her, to take her hand and kiss it as he had done her mother and sisters. Instead, he allowed her to look him over carefully. "La signorina Melissa. Alex has spoken to me about you. But he never mentioned that your eyes are so bright that I would need sunglasses to look into them."

Lissa stood very still. Then she looked from Mass to her mother. A very female smile slowly made an appearance. Two members of the female species exchanged one of those silent communications that men would never be able to decipher.

Walter suddenly realized that Mass had been right. They were no longer just children, but girls on their way to becoming women.

Lissa turned her face back to Mass, hesitantly offered him her hand. Moving very carefully, knowing that he was being honoured by such a gesture, he placed his hand under hers, allowing her the opportunity to pull away at any time, leaned over and brought both up to his mouth.

Lissa barely allowed his lips to touch before she pulled her hand back, but her eyes were bright. 

The Explorer pulled in and, almost shyly, Lissa made her way around Mass to run for Alex who was getting out of the driver's seat. They all watched as Lissa was caught, hugged and, hanging on to Alex's shoulders, was carried back.

Walter finished the introductions, grinned at the enthusiastic reaction of the girls to the three men who looked alike. Mass began unloading the car, ordering Sebastian to stop flirting and to bring the cases into the house. Sebastian pushed his glasses up his nose, demanding to know who had made him boss. 

"I am the eldest. It goes with the territory. Am I not correct, Signorina Domina?"

Domina, who recognized a fellow dictator, agreed, ordering her sisters to grab the smaller packages. 

Alex refused to help: "I've been ill, remember. I'm not supposed to do anything strenuous."

Zanna rushed up to Mass, took his paints case from him with awed respect. "Uncle Walter says you draw all the time. Will you be drawing here too? Could I watch?"

Maggie had already brought one small suitcase in, rushed around her mother to accept what was obviously a bag of presents. "Are any of these for us?"

Another vehicle pulled up, a battered van carrying three more surrogate uncles. There were more squeals, greetings, introductions, all at the same time as Mass continued snapping out orders to the delight of Domina.

Walter looked at Dana Scully and shook his head. "My circus meets yours."

"Oh, well," Dana shrugged. "Barnum and Bailey did merge with Ringling." She started down the steps to help Zanna with Mass's portfolio. "They survived. We will too."

                         ****

That Christmas was an accumulation of snapshot memories for Dana Scully.

Episodes that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Zanna hung over Mass's shoulder, eyes intent on the way he handled the charcoal. Dana had known how much this child loved drawing, but until she saw the absolute pleasure on her daughter's face as Mass instructed her, she had never really realized how ingrained the desire to draw was in Zanna.

Domina and Sebastian were the next unexpected pairing. But then, they both had the precise minds needed for tinkering with abstract puzzles. Of her four daughters, Domina was the one with the greatest computer skills. Now Sebastian linked her to a math site with puzzles of all kinds and together they discussed logical progression in problem solving. 

Dana wasn't all that surprised to find the two of them one afternoon together at the dining room table when the others were all off doing last minute shopping. Sebastian was calmly explaining what he called a simplified version of the theorem of Chaos to a Domina who not only seemed to be following the explanation, but was asking questions that delighted her tutor.

Lissa, of course, disappeared with Alex. Probably up in her cocoon, the both of them, needing time away from the noise, the "chaos" of the house. Still, Lissa was always more open, less quiet when Alex was around. Dana often thought that Alex was also less closed around her daughter. She took pleasure in the fact that they strengthened each other, this child of hers and the ex-assassin.

Maggie and her uncle Walter went to a movie. Some chase/cop/action thing that normally Dana wouldn't permit. But the two of them enjoyed themselves so much that she made an exception to this rule only for Walter. They came back, eyes shining, clothes stained with popcorn "butter", happily tearing the film apart for its inaccuracies.

And in and out were the Gunmen, who set up some extra computers for everyone. 

Byers delightedly argued with Sebastian over some theorem she had never heard of. 

She caught Langley discussing hacking with Alex, Lissa slouched over his shoulder, head resting against Alex's, listening to every word. 

Frohike and Walter took over the kitchen, chasing her out whenever she tried to see what they were up to. Mass ordered the girls to set the table with her best china, supervising like a general with his troops. She had to admit the final product was worth all the noise.

At one point, Alex took her by the hand, led her to Lissa's cocoon and left her there, lying on the floor, head propped on Lissa'a pillow, a glass of wine in her hand. There was a lot to be said, she admitted to herself, for Lissa's method for coping.

Especially when, at supper, she realized that what the girls had in their wine glasses was wine, not grape juice.

"Watered," explained Mass. "But they need to know the taste of a good vintage. An educated palate is an important part of a young woman's upbringing. A man who will feed her an inferior wine is not a man worth knowing."

So, with a variety of nods, some pleased, some uncertain expressions, Dana Scully watched as her daughters took their first steps into womanhood under someone else's tutelage. 

They all went to midnight mass. Well, not the Gunmen who felt that religion was solely her domain.

The church was within walking distance. The streets were empty as they strolled back, the girls rushing on ahead to prepare the snacks that Walter had orchestrated for their return and to select the one gift they were allowed to open before going to bed.

At the door, Dana looked back to see the four men, walking side by side down the middle of the street. There was a light dusting of snow falling, the only illumination coming from neighbouring houses. She knew she would never forget this image.

Mass was at one end, Walter at the other.

Mass was wearing those high boots that emphasised his legs, his sexuality. He was wearing black pants under them, another of those sweaters but in black this time. Instead of a coat, he wore a heavy black cape, a black fedora dashingly angled on his head. 

He was walking, arms linked with Sebastian who was also in black, a conservative yet exquisite Saville row tailoring that suited his academic life, but that he had accessorised with a long black collegial scarf tossed over a shoulder.

Alex was laughing at something Mass was saying. Of all of them, he was the one who still looked like a bad boy. He wore black slacks, the most formal thing she had ever seen him wear, a black cashmere sweater with a high collar that had been a gift from Mass when he been ill. And that battered black leather jacket that only emphasized the edge of danger that the man would probably bear until the day he died.

Walter was holding up his end with a Hugo Boss suit in a navy so dark as to be black. He had topped that with a newer version of the FBI "batcoat", also in black. He wore a black Stetson on his head.

Dana leaned against her front door, wondering just what the neighbours would think if they caught sight of all this masculinity on parade. 

She muttered to herself, as she opened the door, "Get it under control, woman. They don't need you drooling over the lot of them on top of everyone else."

Christmas morning, as usual with Domina, came far too early. Dana handed Walter a cup of coffee, sat beside him on the couch watching as all the "children", including Alex and Lissa, sat on the floor, surrounded by scads of colourful paper.

"Whatever happened to Barnum, Bailey and the Ringling brothers?" asked Walter.

Dana sighed. "They ran away from the circus. Joined some home, I think."

                         ++++

Then, after ignoring his flirting for three days, Dana agreed to go out for supper with Mass.

"After all," he said, "you are a beautiful woman. You deserve some time at a quiet supper, with a man whose full attention will be concentrated on you. Some good food. A little dancing. You like dancing, don't you?" He leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her, his eyes exuding sincerity. "When was the last time you went dancing? Just because you are a mother does not mean that you should have no time to yourself. Come dancing with me, Donna Katharina Dana."

Dana shook her head, laughing.

"Is it because I look like Alex?" Mass's voice was stripped of all flirtatiousness. "I know that Walter has said that there was a time when you would have killed him had you been of the kind to kill. That you had cause. When you look at me, do you only see Alex?"

She turned to look at the man now watching her without any of his usual playfulness. The face was more Alex than ever. But the man, she thought, was not.

"Dancing?"

"Dancing." The smile grew on Mass's face. "You will make yourself more beautiful than you are. Put on a dress that you haven't had need to wear. We will go as a man and a woman who want a meal, some quiet conversation. And then we will go dancing. Nothing else. I swear."

Strangely enough, Alex was the most upset about this evening out. The others had raised their eyebrows, shrugged and told her not to worry about the girls.

She was putting the final touches on herself when there was a knock on her bedroom door.

"Yes?"

Alex slipped into the room, looking very uneasy. "Scully, are you sure you want to do this?"

Dana glanced over her shoulder. It amused her to see Alex so discomforted by the situation. "We're only going for a meal and then maybe some dancing."

"Dana, he's....he's my brother and I care for him, but he's a lech."

Dana's eyebrows rose as they had in her days at the FBI.

"Well, he is. Look, be careful."

"Are you hinting that I may not be safe with him, Alex?" She sprayed the air with some expensive perfume, walked into the mist. Alex frowned, as if he had never seen anyone ever do something like that.

"You'd better be. No, it's just that..."

Dana took pity on Alex. "I know what he is, Alex. He's not you. He's not Sebastian. He's a very experienced man and a very good-looking one. And I do know how to take care of myself. Remember?"

Still, when Mass came out of the room he was using as his bedroom, dressed in an Italian suit, hair loose, eyes very appreciative of what he saw, it did cross her mind to wonder if she were completely certain of her control.

Alex glared at Mass who ignored him, helping Dana into her coat, swirling his cape around his own shoulders. 

Walter tossed Mass the keys to his car. "Just remember that you're not in Italy."

The girls giggled. They'd seen her dress for special occasions before, one or two dates, but Dana hoped that none of them would blurt out that they had never seen her look this gussied up. Well, she rationalized, if one was going out with a man as eye catching as Massimiliano de Gama, one did have to dress a little finer than normal. 

Her competitive spirit, she told herself.

The fact that she came home alone, around four a.m., in a taxi was not really a surprise. The fact that Alex was waiting up for her was. 

He took one look at her and whatever he was going to say never made it out of his mouth. His shocked expression was the icing on her evening.

Without a word, she came up to him, kissed him on the cheek. Half way up the stairs, she turned round. He was still standing there, staring up at her.

"You know, Alex, I never really realized before tonight just how lucky a man Walter is."

It took Alex a moment to get it.

From the top of the stairs, Dana Scully watched as Alex blushed, beet red.

                                             ****NIF****

 

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Archived: 22:28 03/21/01 


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